FURTHER 
PAGES  OF 
MY  LIFE 


THFKERtV.V. 
DOTD  CARPENTER 


BX  5199    .C3  A4 
Carpenter,  William  Boyd, 

1841-1918. 
Further  pages  of  my  life 


FURTHER  PAGES 
OF  MY  LIFE 


FURTHER  PAGES 
OF  MY  LIFE 


BY  THE 


RIGHT  REV.  W.  BOYD  CARPENTER 

K.C.V.O.,  D.D.,  D.C.L.,  D.LITT. 

Sub-Dean  and  Canon  of  Westminster,  and  Clerk  of  the  Closet 
to  H.M.  the  King,  and  formerly  Bishop  of  Ripon 

AUTHOR  Of 

'some    fACES    OF    MV    LIFE,'    'tHE    WITNESS    OF    RELIGIOUS    EXPERIENCE,'  ETC. 


irjTH  PORTRAITS  AND  ILLUHTRATlOm 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

597-599  FIFTH  AVENUE 
I9I7 


Printed  in  Great  Britaik  bv 
RicHARD  Clay  &  Sons,  Limited. 

BRUNSWICK  ST.,  STAMFORD  ST.,  S.T  , 
AND  BUNGAY  SUFFOLK. 


PREFACE 


These  pages  are  only  reflections  mingled  with  remi- 
niscences, I  have  written  them  without  other  thought  than 
of  recording  frankly  and  honestly  things  as  they  were  or, 
rather,  as  they  seemed  to  me.  There  are  things  written  here 
which  touch  on  intimate  parts  of  my  life — which  I  shrank 
from  recording,  but  which  nevertheless  the  unappeasable 
gratitude  of  my  heart  urged  me  to  write  lest  any  should 
think  that  what  is  long  past  has  been  forgotten.  Those  who 
know  me  will  understand.  To  those  who  do  not,  1  would 
say  that  love  is  the  supreme  educator  of  souls,  and  life  without 
love  is  destitute  of  meaning.  Realizing  this,  I  think  that' 
they,  too,  will  understand. 

The  chapter  which  speaks  of  the  late  much.-loved  King 
contains  the  substance  of  an  article  which  appeared  in  the 
Nineteenth  Century  and  Afterwards  in  1910,  and  which  1  am 
allowed  by  the  kindness  of  the  Editor  to  make  use  of  here. 

For  the  rest,  1  can  only  say  that  life,  which  for  me  is 
drawing  to  its  close,  has  been,  as  I  said  in  a  previous 
volume,  full  of  interest ;  and  that  which  establishes  its  interest 
is  the  conviction  that  this  life  is  but  a  schoolroom  life,  in 
which  Love  is  teaching  us  how  to  love,  that  we  may  feel  at 
home  among  those  who  have  learnt  to  love. 


V 


5n  /Ifteinortam 

A.  M.  C. 

Una  Donna  soletta,  che  si  gia 
Cantando  ed  iscegliendo  fior  da  fiore, 
Ond'era  pinta  tutta  la  sua  via. 


CONTENTS 

PREFACE  

FRAGMENTS  OF  SONG  AND  STORY    .       .       .       .  i 

COUSINS  AND  BROTHER   15 

MY  BROTHER  HENRY   25 

MY  BEATRICE   35 

MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW   44 

VILLA  LUCAS  OR  PRANGINS   75 

CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES   84 

SKETCHES  OF  PARSONS  WITH  A  MORAL       .  .112 

HOLBECK  JUNCTION   131 

MR.  MILLWRIGHT   137 

GOOD  FRIDAY   142 

FOUR-FOOTED  FRIENDSHIP   164 

F.  W.  ROBERTSON   178 

J.  HENRY  SHORTHOUSE   204 

MY  HOURS  OF  SICKNESS   218 

WAR  MEMORIES   221 

KING  EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH   239 

THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM   263 

THE  GREATER  FRIENDSHIP   295 

INDEX    .       ,   315 

vii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


THE   RT.    REV.   W.    BOYD   CARPENTER     .  Frontispiece 
From  the  painting  by  H.  G.  Riviere. 

HARRIET  CHARLOTTE  BOYD  CARPENTER  To  face  page  64 

A  "BEAU"  DRAWN— AT  A  VENTURE  .  „  218 

"THE  GOOD  BRAVE  MAN  HIS  DUTY  DID"     „  220 

BROAD  BASED  UPON  THE  PEOPLE'S  WILL      „  222 

OH  !  FOR  THE  TOUCH  OF  A  VANISHED 

HAND  ,,224 

The  above  four  illustrations  are  reproduced from  water-colour 
drawings  by  the  Aztthor. 

MY  CHAPLAINS,  191 1  „  294 

THE  AUTHOR    .  „  304 

From  a  photograph  by  Lafayette. 


vili 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF 
MY  LIFE 


FRAGMENTS  OF  SONG  AND  STORY 

I  WONDER  whether  friends  interested  in  traditional  lore 
can  help  me  to  recover  the  original  versions  of  some 
songs  and  carols  which  float — incomplete,  alas  ! — in  my 
memory  from  very  early  days.  I  transport  myself  back  in 
thought — well-nigh  seventy  years.  It  is  winter,  and  the 
dark,  cold  days  are  bringing  Christmas  nearer.  We  hear 
the  shuffle  of  uncertain  feet  on  the  pavement  outside  the 
house  ;  there  is  a  pause,  and  then  children's  voices  are 
raised  in  carol  and  song.  I  can  only  set  down  the  carol 
imperfectly,  and  I  do  so  in  the  hope  that  some  one  better 
qualified  than  I  may  be  able  to  tell  us  whence  it  comes,  and 
perhaps  give  it  in  its  entirety.  We  only  heard  it  imper- 
fectly :  indeed,  I  am  not  sure  that  the  children  who  sang 
it  knew  more  than  a  fragment  of  the  original  ;  but  clearly 
the  original  must  have  been  some  metrical  version  of  an 
imaginary  or  apocryphal  incident  in  our  Lord's  infant  life. 
The  words  which  fell  upon  our  ears,  as  I  remember  them, 
were  these — 

B 


2 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


"  He  went  down,  he  went  down, 
To  yonder  little  town 
As  far  as  the  old  oak-tree, 
And  there  he  met  some  boys  and  girls 
And  said,  '  Will  you  play  with  me  ? ' 
'  O  no  !  O  no  ! '  said  these  naughty  little  boys, 
'  We  will  not  play  with  you.' 
So,  crying,  he  ran 
To  the  Virgin  Mary  Ann, 
'  They  will  not  play  with  me.' " 

What  more  of  this  carol  was  sung  I  cannot  recall ;  but 
well  I  know  that  the  singers  always  hurried  on  to  the 
practical  refrain,  which  hinted  at  the  Christmas  gratuity, 
and  with  loud  voices  they  lustily  sang  as  follows — 

"Now  bless  the  master  of  this  house. 
And  bless  the  mistress  true. 
And  all  the  little  children 
Around  the  table  too — 
Your  pockets  full  of  money,  and  your  cellars  full  of  beer, 
And  we  wish  you  a  merry  Christmas  and  a  happy  New  Year." 

So  over  and  over  again  round  the  square  these  ditties 
were  sung,  and  it  may  be  taken  for  granted  that  the  singers 
did  not  go  home  empty-handed.  These  fragments  of 
Christmas  greetings  and  songs  are  nothing  ;  but  for  a  long 
time  my  curiosity,  especially  respecting  the  first,  has  been 
piqued,  and  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  meet  with  the  carol 
in  its  complete  form. 

Among  songs  which  I  heard  when  I  was  young,  there 
was  one  which  my  Aunt  Fanny  (Mrs.  Lawson)  was  fond 
of  singing.  I  never  saw  it  in  print  :  it  was  only  from  her 
singing  that  I  learnt  it ;  but  here  again  I  should  like  to 
trace  it  to  its  origin,  and  meet  with  it  in  a  more  perfect 


FRAGMENTS  OF  SONG  AND  STORY  3 


version  than  1  can  give.  It  was  the  narrative  of  a  certain 
wily  husband,  whose  home  was  in  Yorkshire  ;  and  the 
song  went  in  this  fashion — 

"  Mr.  Simpkins  lived  in  Leeds, 
And  he  had  a  wife  beside  : 
This  wife  she  wore  the  breeches, 

So  she  often  wished  to  ride. 
She  asked  him  for  a  horse. 

And  he  yielded  to  her  folly ; 
Said  he,  '  I'm  always  mollified 
By  you,  my  dearest  Molly.' 

Tol  de  rol,  de  rol,  etc. 

"This  horse  it  had  six  legs, 
As  I  shall  prove  to  you  ; 
For  when  it  raised  its  fore'egs 

Yet  still  it  stood  on  two. 
Down  tumbled  Mrs.  Simpkins ; 

Her  loving  spouse  averred, 
'  My  Lamb's  as  dead  as  mutton. 
For  she  cannot  speak  a  word.' 

Tol  de  rol,  de  rol,  etc. 

"  They  put  her  in  a  coffin, 

And  he  bid  them  nail  her  fast  ; 
And  the  funeral  procession 

To  the  village  church  it  passed. 
Said  Simpkins  to  his  neighbours, 

'  I'll  follow  at  my  leisure. 
For  why  should  I,  my  friends. 
Make  a  business  of  a  pleasure  ? ' 

Tol  de  rol,  de  rol,  etc. 

"At  night  the  resurrection  man 
Determined  the  corpse  to  raise  : 
He  oped  the  coffin  wide, 
And  on  the  fair  did  gaze. 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 

The  noise  awoke  the  lady, 

'  What  brings  you  here  ? '  she  sighed, 
*  With  picic-axe,  spade  and  shovel  ?' 
'  Why  axe  about  ? '  he  cried. 

Tol  de  rol,  de  rol,  etc, 

"Then  up  jumped  Mrs.  Simpkins, 
And  to  the  stable  hied. 
Where  she  saw  her  spouse  caressing 

The  beast  by  which  she  died. 
When  in  came  neighbour  Horner, 

Said  he,  *  I'll  buy  that  beast  ; 
For  perhaps  he'll  do  for  my  wife 
What  he  did  for  the  deceased.' 

Tol  de  rol,  de  rol,  etc. 

"  '  O  no  ! '  said  Mr.  Simpkins, 
'  I  cannot  take  your  pelf, 
For  know,  good  neighbour  Horner, 

I  may  want  it  for  myself. 
I'm  grateful  to  this  creature. 

And  if  I  wed  again. 
Perhaps  to  its  assistance 

I  should  not  look  in  vain.' 

Tol  de  rol,  de  rol,  etc. 

"  Then  in  rushed  Mrs.  Simpkins 
And  caught  him  by  the  hair  ; 
'  Disown  your  lawful  wife  now, 

You  villain,  if  you  dare  ! 
I'm  neither  dead  nor  buried. 

And  you  thought  to  marry  too  (two)  ; 
But  now,  my  dearest  husband, 
I'll  live  to  bury  you.' 

Tol  de  rol,  de  rol,  etc. 

"Then  off  went  neighbour  Horner. 
Said  he,  *  It  is  not  fair 
To  spoil  the  reconciling 
Of  such  a  pretty  pair.' 


FRAGMENTS  OF  SONG  AND  STORY  5 


But  Simpkins  kissed  his  loving  wife, 
'  I'm  yours  till  death,'  he  cried  ; 

'  But  when,  my  dearest  dear, 
Will  you  take  another  ride  ? ' 

Tol  de  rol,  de  rol,  etc." 

Here  is  a  gruesome  tale,  which  my  dear  old  nurse, 
Mary  Ann,  used  to  tell  us,  and  as  she  told  us  it  thrilled 
us  with  the  sense  of  mystery  and  marvel ;  it  seemed  to 
open  up  to  us  the  long  and  dark  road  of  human  wicked- 
ness, for  it  was  the  first  story  of  crime  and  the  conflict  of 
courageous  goodness  with  evil  passion  which  we  had  heard. 

The  story  was  in  this  wise. 

In  a  certain  town — Chester,  I  think- — there  lived  a 
domestic  servant  who,  three  nights  running,  dreamed  the 
same  dream.  She  dreamt  that  she  was  in  Wrexham,  a 
town  with  which,  if  I  recollect  aright,  she  had  no  con- 
nexion. In  her  dream  she  saw  a  house,  and  in  the  house 
a  dark  cellar-passage.  In  that  passage  she  witnessed  a  deed 
of  blood  :  a  lad  attacked  by  a  man  who  bore  a  large  knife 
in  his  hand  ;  there  was  a  struggle,  and  in  it  the  lad's  hand 
was  nearly  severed  from  his  arm,  and  then  she  saw  the  man 
burying  his  victim  under  a  flagstone  in  the  cellar.  The 
thrice-repeated  dream  produced  such  a  powerful  impression 
upon  her  mind  that  she  resolved  to  visit  Wrexham  and 
test  the  truth  of  her  dream.  According  to  the  story,  she 
was  able  to  impress  others,  and  to  evoke  such  sympathy 
from  the  officials  of  the  town  that  they  permitted  search  to 
be  made.  Guided  by  the  girl,  the  authorities  went  to  the 
house  :  she  led  them  to  the  celkr  :  she  pointed  out  the 
flagstone  which  she  had  seen  in  her  dreams.    The  flagstone 


6  FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


was  taken  up,  and  beneath  was  found  the  body  of  a  lad 
with  one  hand  almost  severed  from  his  arm.  The  house 
in  which  the  discovery  was  made  was  occupied  by  a 
surgeon-apothecary.  Upon  him  naturally  suspicion  fell, 
and  investigation  brought  out  the  following  tragic  tale. 

There  dwelt  in  the  town  of  Wrexham  an  old  lady  who 
had  been  for  many  years  a  very  valuable  patient  of  a 
doctor-apothecary  who  practised  and  prepared  medicines 
for  the  inhabitants.  This  doctor-apothecary  had  an  errand- 
boy,  whose  duty  it  was  to  carry  the  medicines  out,  and 
deliver  them  at  the  houses  of  the  patients.  This  lad  had 
an  observant  eye  and  a  reflective  mind.  He  therefore 
picked  up  knowledge  in  unexpected  ways.  He  gained  a 
fairly  accurate  knowledge  of  drugs  and  their  properties, 
and  knew  more  of  what  his  master  was  doing  than  the 
master  could  have  thought  possible.  The  master,  unaware 
of  the  vigilant  eye  of  the  lad,  carried  on  his  business,  pre- 
pared the  medicines,  bottled  them  and  sent  them  out, 
unmindful  of  the  sharp  and  intelligent  eyes  of  his  errand- 
boy. 

There  came  a  time  when  the  death  of  the  old  lady 
would  be  more  profitable  to  the  apothecary  than  her  life. 
Perhaps  she  had  made  a  will  under  which  he  would  benefit, 
but  on  this  point  the  story  was  npt  explicit.  As  the 
apothecary  saw,  however,  the  opportunity  of  solid  gain,  he 
resolved  not  to  lose  it.  Accordingly  he  made  up  for  the 
old  lady  a  bottle  of  medicine  which  contained  poison.  He 
fondly  supposed  that  he  only  knew  what  he  had  done  ;  but 
the  boy  had  observed  him,  and  the  boy  knew  as  he  carried 
the  medicine  to  the  old  lady's  house  that  he  was  carrying 


FRAGMENTS  OF  SONG  AND  STORY  7 


death  to  the  door.  Accordingly,  on  reaching  the  house,  he 
asked  and  obtained  permission  to  deliver  the  medicine  in 
person  to  the  lady.  As  he  handed  her  the  bottle  he  said, 
"Don't  take  any  of  it:  it  contains  poison."  Then  he 
returned  to  the  shop. 

A  day  or  so  afterwards  the  apothecary  went  to  pay  his 
usual  visit  to  the  old  lady  :  naturally  he  had  expected  to 
hear  of  her  death  ;  but  on  his  arrival  he  was  shown  as 
usual  to  the  old  lady's  room,  and  there  she  was,  still  alive 
and  very  alert.  She  looked  steadily  at  the  apothecary,  and 
then  drew  from  under  her  pillow  the  medicine  bottle,  with 
the  medicine  in  it  untouched.  She  told  him  that  his  wicked 
plan  had  failed,  because  a  courageous  and  conscientious  boy 
had  given  her  warning.  The  apothecary  returned  home, 
and  almost  immediately  sent  the  lad  into  the  cellar  to  the 
store  place.  Stealthily  he  followed,  armed  with  a  knife  ; 
and  there  in  the  dark  passage  he  killed  the  lad,  and  be- 
neath the  flagstones  of  the  cellar  he  buried  him.  There 
had  been  some  resistance  on  the  lad's  part,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  slight  struggle  the  lad's  hand  was  almost 
severed  from  his  arm. 

All  that  remained  to  tell  was  the  usual  sequel.  The 
apothecary's  shop  was  closed,  the  premises  were  bought  by 
an  enterprising  publican,  who  opened  them  as  a  public- 
house,  and  as  an  advertisement  and  enticement  of  custom, 
called  his  place  of  business  The  Bloody  Hand. 

Such  was  the  story,  and  it  lost  nothing  in  emphasis  or 
impressiveness  from  little  Mary  Ann's  telling  of  it.  How 
she  lowered  her  voice  as  the  tragic  climax  was  reached  ; 
how  her  little  dark  eyes  glowed  as  she  described  the  courage 


8  FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


of  the  boy,  or  the  act  of  the  old  lady  as  she  drew  the  tell- 
tale bottle  from  beneath  her  pillow.  Truly  the  tale  was 
vividly  imprinted  on  our  memories,  and  it  left  upon  our 
minds  an  uncanny  sense  of  human  vindictiveness  and  of 
occult  methods  of  just  retribution. 

But  I  must  not  close  this  chapter  with  such  an  uncanny 
story  ;  it  might  suggest  false  conclusions ;  it  might  be 
thought  that  my  dear  little  Mary  Ann  delighted  in  nar- 
rating dismal  and  tragic  tales.  Her  tone  of  mind  was  of 
another  order  :  she  was  cheerful  and  shrewd-witted,  and 
would  rather  encourage  than  depress  the  spirits.  Here  is 
a  story  much  more  characteristic  of  little  Mary  Ann's  tale- 
telling  art — 

Once  upon  a  time  there  lived  a  farmer  who  began  to 
meet  with  what  looked  like  evil  fortune.  His  farming  did 
not  prosper  ;  his  crops  were  not  as  plentiful  as  once  they 
were  ;  his  cattle  did  not  thrive  ;  the  spirit  of  mischance 
seemed  to  hover  over  his  farm.  About  this  time  a  woman, 
who  in  some  ages  would  have  been  a  witch,  and  in  others 
a  wise  woman,  came  round  to  the  various  houses  in  the 
neighbourhood  and  was  received  and  consulted  as  one  who 
could  ensure  good  fortune  and  avert  evil.  She  visited  the 
farmer,  and  he,  with  many  expressions  of  self-pity,  narrated 
how  trouble  and  loss  appeared  to  dog  his  footsteps. 

The  woman  listened,  and  then  she  said  :  "  I  can  tell 
you  the  way  to  good  fortune.  Do  you  see  that  cup  she 
asked,  pointing  to  one  of  special  pattern  which  hung  on  a 
nail  on  the  dresser.  "  If  you  will  take  that  cup  to  ,the 
spring  and  fill  it,  and  drink  it  there  every  morning  at  six 
o'clock,  good  fortune  will  be  yours." 


FRAGMENTS  OF  SONG  AND  STORY  9 


The  farmer,  having  trust  in  the  woman's  unearthly 
knowledge,  resolved  that  he  would  put  her  counsel  to  the 
test.  Taking  the  particular  cup  with  him,  which  he  now 
regarded  with  superstitious  reverence,  he  rose  early,  visited 
the  spring,  drank  the  fresh  sparkling  water.  For  weeks 
and  months  he  continued,  having  once  commenced  the 
habit ;  and  as  the  months  went  by,  behold,  his  farm  began 
to  prosper.  The  wise  woman  had  shown  him  that  the  way 
to  success  was  in  early  rising  and  personal  superintendence 
of  his  farm.  His  ill-fortune  had  sprung  from  indolent 
habits.  Industry  and  hardihood  of  Hfe  changed  failure  to 
success.  But  ever  after  the  farmer  kept  as  a  sacred  symbol 
and  highly  prized  treasure  the  cup  with  which  he  had 
learned  to  drink  early  draughts  from  the  spring. 

In  stories  like  this  little  Mary  Ann  distilled  practical 
wisdom  for  us  to  remember  and  cherish.  She  did  not  know 
Thomson,  but  she  taught  us  that — 

"  Renown  is  not  the  child  of  indolent  repose." 

Among  tales  and  fragments  of  tales  I  may,  perhaps,  place 
this  fragment  of  speeches  heard  in  the  street.  I  was  walking 
down  Duke  Street,  Liverpool,  perhaps  sixty  years  ago, 
perhaps  more.  At  the  corner  was  a  man  addressing  a  little 
group  of  people  with  all  the  earnestness  of  a  Cheap  Jack. 
He  was  trying  to  persuade  the  people  to  buy  his  wares, 
which,  I  suppose,  were  booklets  or  broadsheets,  and  can 
I  be  right  in  surmising  that  he  was  also  selling  playing 
cards  At  any  rate,  playing  cards  were  his  theme  when 
I  stopped  to  listen.  His  speech  was  on  this  wise  :  "  Here 
is  a  pack  of  cards — your  almanack  and  your  Bible  in 


lo  FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


one.  It  is  your  almanack  :  Fifty-two  cards — fifty-two 
weeks  in  the  year  ;  four  suits — four  seasons  ;  three  hun- 
dred and  sixty-five  pips  on  the  faces  of  the  cards — three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  days  in  the  year.  You  tell  me 
that  I  am  wrong.  Yes,  I  am  wrong — there  are  three 
hundred  and  sixty-six  pips,  but  that  provides  you  for 
leap-year.  The  pack  of  cards  is  an  almanack.  It  is  a 
Bible  also.  I  look  at  the  ace,  and  it  reminds  me  of  the 
One  God  ;  I  look  at  the  two,  and  it  reminds  me  of  the 
two  natures  in  Christ  ;  I  look  at  the  three,  and  it  reminds 
me  of  the  Trinity  ;  I  look  at  the  king,  and  it  reminds  me 
of  the  King  of  kings,  or  you  will  think  it  better  if  I  say 
it  reminds  me  of  Solomon,  who  was  the  wisest  of  kings  ; 
I  look  at  the  queen,  and  it  reminds  me  of  the  Queen  of 
Sheba,  who  was  as  wise  for  a  woman  as  he  was  for  a  man. 
When  the  Queen  of  Sheba  came  to  visit  Solomon  she 
brought  with  her  five  hundred  little  boys  and  five  hundred 
little  girls,  all  dressed  alike,  and  she  asked  Solomon  to  say 
which  were  the  little  boys  and  which  were  the  little  girls. 
For  a  time  he  was  puzzled,  then  he  called  for  water  and 
told  all  the  children  to  wash  their  hands,  and  then  he  was 
able  to  tell  which  were  boys  and  which  were  girls,  for  the 
little  boys  washed  their  hands  as  far  as  their  wrists,  but  all 
the  little  girls  washed  up  to  their  elbows," 

Such  was  the  gist  of  the  Cheap  Jack's  discourse.  More 
he  said  which  I  have  forgotten,  and  probably  a  good  deal 
more  which  I  did  not  stay  to  hear  ;  but  the  exposition  he 
gave  of  the  use  of  a  pack  of  cards  stayed  in  my  memory.  His 
calculation  of  the  value  of  the  pips  was  quite  correct — if  all 
the  court  cards,  including  the  ace,  are  reckoned  as  worth  ten. 


FRAGMENTS  OF  SONG  AND  STORY  ii 


I  may  end  this  chapter  with  a  story  which  points  a 
moral,  I  shall  first  give  the  story.  I  shall  then  give  the 
key  which  explains  what  seemed  to  many  to  be  incredible. 
I  shall  then,  after  the  fashion  of  my  calling,  point  out  the 
moral.  The  story,  then,  is  this :  One  afternoon  at  the 
witching  hour,  when  the  drowsy  air  invites  to  seductive 
repose,  an  old  lady  was  seated  in  her  armchair,  and  the 
welcome  influence  of  the  rest-giving  hour  was  upon  her  ; 
the  door  of  the  living-room  was  open,  and  the  pleasant 
sunshine  of  the  sleepy  afternoon  threw  a  lane  of  light  down 
the  two  or  three  steps  by  which  the  house  was  entered,  and 
spread  a  square  patch  of  light  across  the  kitchen  floor. 
The  house  was  on  the  lower  side  of  the  road  which  climbs 
from  the  city  of  Lancaster  to  the  famous  castle  known  as 
Lancaster  Gaol.  Suddenly  the  woman  awoke  from  her 
half-slumbrous  condition  and  beheld  a  startling  apparition. 
Down  the  steps  there  came,  bumping  upon  each  step  as 
it  fell,  a  human  head,  and  rolled  into  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen.  A  further  apparition  appeared,  the  black  and 
ghastly  head  was  followed  by  a  headless  figure,  draped  in 
a  long  cloak  ;  it  reached  out  from  beneath  the  cloak  an 
eager,  clutching  hand,  while  a  voice  as  from  a  sepulchre 
cried,  "  Where's  my  head  Give  me  my  head  !  "  The 
head  was  seized,  the  figure  vanished,  and  the  woman 
fainted. 

The  neighbours  found  her  and  restored  her  to  con- 
sciousness, and  to  them  she  told  the  tale.  She  declared 
that  her  husband's  head  came  bumping  and  rolling  into  the 
kitchen  (she  had  been  married  to  a  black  man),  and  that  the 
Devil  had  come  and  had  carried  it  off.    The  neighbours 


12  FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


shook  their  heads  and  looked  at  one  another  with  significant 
and  incredulous  gestures.  The  meaning  of  all  was  quite 
clear  :  the  old  lady  had  had  a  fit,  and  had  dreamed  or 
fancied  this  horror.  They  disbelieved  the  •  tale :  they 
regarded  the  old  lady  as  the  victim  of  some  hallucination. 
Common  sense  refused  to  believe  such  a  gruesome  and 
incredible  tale  ;  but  common  sense  was  wrong,  and  the  old 
lady  was  right  in  her  facts,  though  wrong  in  her  inference. 
Here  is  the  key  of  the  matter  :  After  the  Rugeley  murder, 
scientific  men  showed  some  active  interest  in  the  formation 
of  human  skulls.  Dr.  William  Palmer,  the  man  who 
poisoned  Mr.  James  Parsons  Cook  with  strychnine,  had  a 
remarkable  head,  and  a  certain  eminent  man  of  science 
began  to  study  the  heads  of  criminals.  The  governor  of 
Lancaster  Gaol,  with  whom  he  was  acquainted,  knew  that 
this  man  of  science  was  studying  heads,  and  wrote  to  tell 
him  of  a  prisoner  then  in  Lancaster  Gaol — a  negro — whose 
head  was  specially  striking  and  peculiar.  The  prisoner,  he 
said,  was  dangerously,  and  more  than  dangerously,  ill,  and 
was  not  likely  to  survive  more  than  a  day  or  two.  If  the 
man  of  science  would  like  it,  the  governor  added,  he 
could  perhaps  allow  him,  after  the  man's  death,  to  take 
away  the  head  for  examination.  As  such  a  thing,  however, 
was  against  prison  rules,  the  man  of  science  must  come 
to  the  gaol  prepared  to  carry  away  the  head  with  him. 
Accordingly  the  learned  professor  provided  himself  with  a 
long  cloak,  appeared  at  the  gaol,  and  at  the  proper  moment 
received  the  ghastly  burden.  To  save  time  and  to  avoid 
observation,  he  chose  a  short  cut  from  the  gaol  to  the 
town.   Instead  of   following  the  winding  of   the  slow, 


FRAGMENTS  OF  SONG  AND  STORY  13 


descending  road,  he  took  a  path  which  cut  across  the 
curves  of  the  road  and  shortened  the  distance.  Such  a 
short  cut  meant,  of  course,  a  more  declivitous  descent,  and 
as  fortune  or  fate  would  have  it,  when  he  emerged  from  the 
path  to  cross  the  road,  he  stumbled  :  the  head  slipped  from 
his  grasp,  rolled  away  and  reached  an  open  door,  and 
promptly  fell  down  the  steps  at  the  entrance  and  disappeared 
into  the  cottage.  There  was  only  one  thing  to  be  done  : 
the  head  must  be  rescued,  and  rescued  with  as  much  secrecy 
as  possible.  It  would  never  do  to  run  the  risk  of  publicity 
and  get  the  governor  into  trouble  !  Therefore  the  professor 
acted  with  discreet  rapidity  :  he  drew  his  cloak  over  his 
head  to  conceal  his  face  ;  he  dashed  into  the  cottage  to 
recover  his  precious  burden,  and  in  order  to  awe  any  one 
who  might  be  there,  he  said  in  a  sepulchral  voice : 
"  Where's  my  head  ?  Give  me  my  head  !  "  as  he  seized 
his  treasure  and  departed  with  it.  The  story  was  ex- 
plained ;  facts  were  no  longer  incredible  ;  the  old  woman 
was  substantially  correct  :  the  head  had  rolled  down  her 
steps  into  her  cottage,  and  had  been  rescued  by  an 
apparently  headless  figure. 

And  now  for  the  moral.  There  is  a  shallow  habit  of 
rejecting  stories  as  untrue  because  they  contain  some 
features  which  seem  to  be  strangely  improbable  :  we  dub 
them  as  impossible  :  we  dismiss  them  as  dreams  or  crazy 
imaginings.  In  doing  so  we  cut  ourselves  off  from  the 
pathway  of  truth  ;  a  little  more  tolerance,  a  little  more 
attention,  followed  by  patient  inquiry,  may  lead  to  some 
interesting  discovery  of  fact  or  law.  There  is  nothing  so 
credulous  as  the  scepticism  which  makes  it  a  habit  to  reject 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


as  valueless  or  false  anything  and  everything  which  seems 
outside  or  contradictory  of  a  few  accepted  and  idolized 
laws.  Such  folk  put  on  blinkers  :  they  can  only  see  what 
lies  on  the  centre  of  the  beaten  track  :  their  eyes  never 
travel  into  the  hedges  and  byways  of  life  :  their  outlook  is 
limited,  and  out  of  this  glorified  habit  of  narrowness  there 
grows  the  old-fogeyism  which  cannot  understand,  still  less 
accept,  new  ideas  or  fresh  messages  from  new  fields  of 
inquiry. 

This  obstinate  attitude  of  mind  was  exemplified  in  my 
early  experiences.  A  cousin  of  ours  came  to  pay  us  a 
visit.  She  brought  with  her  a  boy  about  my  own  age. 
Like  children,  we  were  telling  what  we  had  seen,  and  in  the 
course  of  doing  so  we  told  this  boy  that  we  had  seen  a 
train  which  travelled  without  a  steam-engine.  We  were 
met  with  the  vigorous  rebuke :  "  Don't  tell  Balcram's  lies." 
I  don't  know  now  and  I  didn't  know  then  what  Balcram 
meant,  but  we  resented  the  sceptical  attitude  of  this  lad 
who  made  his  own  measure  the  limit  of  his  intelligence. 
We  had  seen  what  he  had  not — the  atmospheric  railway 
which  then  plied  between  Kingstown  and  Dalkey  in  Ireland. 
The  train  travelled  by  atmospheric  pressure,  the  air  being 
liberated  from  a  tube  laid  between  the  rails.  The  ignorant 
rudeness  of  the  boy  was  a  serviceable  experience.  It  taught 
the  same  moral  which  1  have  tried  to  enforce  as  the  lesson 
of  the  wandering  head  which  terrified  the  old  lady  at 
Lancaster. 


COUSINS  AND  BROTHER 


Pagildeafilda  ! 

We  were  all  seated  at  lunch ;  my  father  at  the  head,  my 
mother  at  the  foot  of  the  table.  The  engravings  of  the 
Royal  Irish  Art  Union  hung  round  the  room  ;  Turner's 
"Ancient  and  Modern  Italy"  flanked  Martin's  picture  of 
"  The  Opening  of  the  Sixth  Seal  "  ;  over  the  chimneypiece 
was  my  father's  portrait  ;  over  the  sideboard,  which  faced 
the  tall  window,  was  the  "  Irish  Blind  Girl  at  the  Holy 
Well."  The  room  had  been  still  and  quiet  till,  in  answer 
to  a  question  from  my  father,  came  the  strange  burst  of 
unintelligible  syllables — 

"  Pagildeafilda." 

My  father  had  said,  "  We  expected  to  see  you  yester- 
day," and  this  was  the  reply.  We  all  gazed  at  the  speaker, 
blank  wonder  and  perplexed  questioning  in  our  counte- 
nances. My  father  uttered  a  faint  inquiry,  "  What  ? " 
only  to  meet  with  a  rapid  reiteration  of  the  enigmatic 
formula — 

"  Pagildeafilda." 

We  were  puzzled  ;  this  was  a  new  language  ;  yet  the 
speaker's  absolute  sincerity,  and  his  complete  conviction 
that  he  had  uttered  what  was  reasonable  and  sufficient, 
were  obvious. 

15 


1 6         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 

At  last,  after  some  further  inquiry,  the  mysterious 
utterance  became  slowly  elongated  into  intelligibility.  "  Pa- 
gildeafilda  "  was  an  abbreviation,  inarticulate  and  incoherent ; 
it  stood  for  the  specific  announcement — 

"Pa  gave  me  a  half-holiday." 

Pagildeafilda — no,  I  am  not  going  to  give  his  name  ; 
he  had  named  himself.  He  was  Pagildeafilda  to  us  for 
many  years  to  come. 

The  circumstances  were  these  :  he  was  our  cousin  ;  his 
parents  lived  in  the  country  ;  he  was  being  educated  at  the 
Royal  Institution  School,  and  he  often  took  lunch  with  us  ; 
he  was  free  to  do  so  whenever  he  chose.  One  day  he  had 
failed  to  appear  when  he  was  expected.  He  explained  by 
the  inchoate  reply,  *'  Pagildeafilda." 

He  was  constantly  with  us  at  midday.  Truth  to  speak, 
we  deemed  him  somewhat  of  a  bore.  He  had  a  tenacious 
affection  for  us,  which  we  sometimes  found  inconvenient. 
He  had  few  resources  in  himself,  and  he  was  prone,  some- 
what incontinently,  to  associate  himself  with  our  pursuits 
or  walks.  Sometimes,  with  the  hope  of  avoiding  his 
company,  we  would  announce  some  piece  of  duty  which 
required  our  attention  ;  but  promptly  came  the  generous 
resolution,  "  I'll  go  with  you."  When  he  did  come  with 
us  I  am  afraid  that  we  walked  very  fast,  wishing  to  shake 
him  off ;  but  dear  Pagildeafilda  was  too  sociable  ;  he  fol- 
lowed us,  keeping,  perhaps,  a  couple  of  feet  behind  us. 
Sociable  ?  yes,  and  garrulous  too.  Out  of  breath,  he 
would  entertain  us  with  the  relics  of  some  good  story, 
partially  remembered  and  only  half  apprehended,  and  shot 
forth  in  incoherent  portions,  punctuated  with  gasps,  and 


COUSINS  AND  BROTHER  17 


guffaws  of  laughter  at  intervals  when  no  apparent  humour 
marked  the  incompleted  narrative. 

I  am  afraid  that  we  were  lacking  in  politeness  ;  but  we 
were  at  the  age  when  dogged  affection  and  tenacious 
sociability  did  not  appeal  to  us.  Yet  as  I  look  back  1  can 
see  that  in  the  very  qualities  which  bored  us  there  lay  the 
germs  of  that  character  which  I  learned  to  admire,  love  and 
respect  in  later  years.  Poor  Pagildeafilda  !  He  had  not 
great  abilities  ;  his  mental  horizon  was  not  wide  ;  his 
powers  of  intellectual  assimilation  were  restricted  ;  but  such 
qualities  as  he  had  were,  if  not  improved  with  due  care, 
yet  allowed  to  grow  into  sterling  qualities.  He  was,  more- 
over, absolutely  free  from  vanity  or  conceit  ;  he  took  up  life 
as  it  came  ;  unquestioningly  he  accepted  every  task,  it  did 
not  concern  him  to  ask  whether  he  liked  it  or  disliked  it  ; 
he  had  never  given  rein  to  his  fancy  with  regard  to  his 
pleasures  or  his  talents ;  he  was  unaware  of  either  his  prefer- 
ences or  his  capacities.  He  could  enjoy  ?  Oh  yes,  he 
could  join  in  the  enjoyments  which  were  proposed  to  him, 
and  when  he  did  so  he  genuinely  enjoyed  himself.  He 
was  a  happy,  selfless  soul,  made  of  the  stuff  out  of  which 
heroes  are  made,  for  he  was  ready  for  anything — duty, 
pleasure,  difficulty,  adventure,  readily  able  to  identify  him- 
self with  anything  that  was  going  on,  and  so,  loyal  to  the 
idea  of  the  moment.  He  was  ready  for  anything — frolic  or 
task,  for  anything  except  what  was  mean  or  dishonourable. 

Let  me  recall  another  scene.    This  time  it  is  a  country 
or  semi-suburban  house  :  it  is  Pagildeafilda's  home.  His 
mother,  large  and  matronly,  with  a  countenance  severely 
motherly,  /.  e.  stern  by  moods  and  benignant  by  desire, 
c 


1 8         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


presides  over  the  extensive  tea-table,  which  is  set  for  the  large 
brood  of  sons  and  daughters,  and  nephews  also,  in  a  house 
as  hospitable  as  it  was  populous.  The  mother  beams  upon 
her  broodlets,  but  her  especial  smile  is,  I  think,  this  night 
for  my  brother  Henry,  who  is  on  the  eve  of  his  departure 
for  Oxford.  A  general  faith  in  my  brother's  genius  pervades 
this  homestead,  and  the  happy  confidence  of  an  affectionate 
heart  brings  the  smile  of  hopeful  anticipation  to  my  aunt's 
countenance. 

My  brother  Henry  is  in  one  of  his  lighter  moods. 
Our  cousin  Robert,  lame,  but  tirelessly  energetic,  is  minis- 
tering to  the  wants  of  those  about  him. 

"  Robert,"  says  my  brother,  '*  1  hope  you  will  write  to 
me,  and  tell  me  how  many  lamp-posts  you  have  pulled  up." 

The  ample  teapot  is  in  my  aunt's  hand  ;  it  is  lifted 
high  to  fill  one  of  the  numerous  petitioning  cups  which  are 
clustered  on  the  tray.  Suddenly  the  teapot  sways  hesitat- 
ingly, then  it  is  replaced  upon  the  tray  with  its  immediate 
mission  unfulfilled.  An  expression  of  dismay  and  horror 
passes  over  the  hospitable  face. 

*'  Robert,"  exclaims  my  aunt,  "  did  you  ever  pull  up  a 
lamp-post  ? " 

The  question  is  asked  in  a  tone  of  severe  conviction,  as 
though  an  awful  truth  had  been  suddenly  brought  to  light. 
So  solemn  and  accusing  is  the  tone  that  a  burst  of  laughter 
broke  round  the  table.  Immediately  the  horrified  anxiety 
melted  from  my  aunt's  face  ;  perception  of  the  joke  irra- 
diated lips  and  eyes,  and  she  joined  in  the  merriment  of 
the  moment. 

N©  !  lamp-posts  had  not  been  pulled  up,  but  lamps  had 


COUSINS  AND  BROTHER 


been  turned  out  upon  the  dark  road  ;  larks  more  or  less 
sprightly  had  been  played,  as  a  handful  of  lads  had  scurried 
over  country  lanes  :  now  stopping  to  converse  with  labourers 
in  the  field  :  now  climbing  some  hill  and  gathering  sticks  to 
make  up  a  hasty  fire  :  now  taking  a  lunch  more  ample  than 
luxurious  by  the  roadside,  and  following  any  quick  fancy 
for  mischief  which  sprang  up  within  one  of  their  restless 
brains. 

My  memories  of  these  expeditions  are  memories  chiefly 
of  cold  ;  for  they  were  chiefly  expeditions  in  the  winter  :  the 
days  were  short,  but  we  were  out  for  long  hours  on  frosty 
roads  which  grew  slippery  towards  nightfall.  The  nights 
seemed  as  cold  as  the  days,  but  the  evenings  indoors  were 
warm  enough  ;  for  the  evenings  were  devoted  to  lectures 
and  charades.  Our  first  lecture  course  was  delivered  under 
the  auspices  of  an  association  (of  ourselves)  which  called 
itself  a  Literary  Society. 

The  first  of  these  lectures  was  given  by  my  cousin 
Robert.  The  subject  was  Dr.  Livingstone's  travels  in 
Africa.  The  literary  level  may  be  judged  by  one  quotation, 
"  Dr.  Livingstone  climbed  the  hill  and  encountered  a  lion, 
half  a  mile  long  and  a  third  of  a  mile  broad."  I  remember, 
too,  how  nervousness  led  to  mistakes  in  reading  and  how 
more  than  once  the  lecturer  read  the  word  "  misled  "  as 
though  it  had  been  "  mizzled."  It  produced  a  curious 
sensation  when  we  were  told  that  the  great  traveller  had 
been  mizzled. 

My  brother  Henry  gave  a  lecture  on  the  Ottoman 
empire.  I  remember  one  image  which  he  employed  at  its 
close  :    the   Crescent   was  the  symbol  of  the  Ottoman 


20        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


power,  but  it  was  destined,  as  the  influence  of  a  nobler 
faith  met  it,  to  expand  into  the  full  orb  of  the  Sun  of 
Righteousness. 

These  are  the  only  lectures  of  which  I  can  recall  any- 
thing. It  was  perhaps  all  very  foolish,  very  conceitedly 
ambitious,  but  yet  I  am  not  sure.  There  was,  perhaps,  in 
these  puerile  efforts  some  wistful  desire  for  self-expression 
and  self-culture. 

We  had  "junketings"  in  those  days,  Christmas  days, 
which  meant  cakes  and  crackers  at  night,  and  eager  prepara- 
tions in  the  daytime.  I  remember  once  how  we  all  joined 
in  making  ready  for  the  advent  of  the  much-expected  cake. 
To  us  was  left  the  provision  of  mottoes  and  quips  which 
were  to  be  its  attendant  satellites.  Here  is  an  old  envelope. 
From  it  I  draw  out  some  fifteen  or  twenty  slips  of  paper. 
Once  the  outside  of  the  paper  was  brilliantly  silvered  :  now 
it  is  a  dull  and  tarnished  grey  ;  but  here,  fresh  as  the  day 
when  they  were  written,  are  some  of  the  rhymes  and  jeux 
d' esprit  prepared  for  the  occasion.  I  cannot  vouch  for  the 
authorship  of  all  ;  but  I  think  that  my  brother  Henry  was 
responsible  for  the  bulk  of  them. 

Here  are  some  of  them — 

"Welcome  to  all  the  little  ones, 
The  sons  and  daughters  here  ; 
I'm  sure,  before  so  many  sons, 
The  frost  will  disappear. 

"  I  think  a  likeness  may  be  found 

'Twixt  the  globe  and  this  noble  dough  ; 
They  both  are  round  :  they  both  pass  round. 
And  the  north  is  the  land  of  snow." 


COUSINS  AND  BROTHER  21 


Here  is  a  pica  for  taking  three  helpings  of  cake — 

"  An  honest  share,  an  even  start  ; 

Of  slices  take  not  less  than  three  ; 
If  two,  you  play  a  double  part  ; 
If  one,  'tis  singularity. 

"  If  jarring  thoughts  within  you  wake. 
Which  here  at  least  should  never  be. 
Just  take  another  piece  of  cake. 
And  pieccful  be  !  " 

Here  is  the  expression  of  widespread  desire. 

"  *  Good  luck  !    Good  luck  ! 

To  the  jolly  tuck,' 
We  cried  when  we  saw  it  in  view. 

Ah  !  have  we  not  felt, 

As  the  frost  did  melt. 
How  our  mouths  were  melting  too?" 

Here  is  the  final  verdict  on  the  disappearing  cake — 

"  Come,  listen,  my  friends  !    I  speak  for  your  sake. 
Take  courage  and  up  with  your  gumption  ; 
When  an  inquest  is  held  on  the  death  of  the  cake. 
You  can  say  that  it  died  of  consumption." 

These  are  little  leaves  from  the  Christmas  trees  and 
cakes  of  long  ago. 

More  riotous  than  the  lecture  nights,  if  not  than  the 
festival  nights,  were  those  in  which  we  played  a  charade. 
Then  we  let  ourselves  go.  We  chose  a  proverb  :  we 
developed  some  imaginary  story  to  fit  the  scenes  :  we  as- 
signed their  parts  to  the  players.  The  properties  required 
for  the  various  scenes  were  collected  ;  but  all  the  rest — 
the  words  to  be  spoken,  the  action,  the  gestures — were  left 
to  the  moment  ;  the  speeches  were  extempore,  and  each 


22        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


actor  was  free  to  develop  the  little  plot  as  he  pleased,  so 
long  as  he  did  so  in  harmony  with  the  pre-arranged  denoue- 
ment. This  kind  of  semi-impromptu  charade  proved  very- 
amusing.  Of  course,  there  was  the  risk  of  some  deadly  dull 
scene,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  unexpected  play,  the 
sudden  utterance  of  some  irresistible  bit  of  humour,  a 
passing  joke,  a  staggering  repartee,  and  the  frightful  joy  of 
watching  how  the  little  piece  was  going,  all  added  a  never- 
failing  interest  to  the  amusement  of  the  evening. 

There  was  also  at  times  a  delight  in  mystifying  the 
audience,  as  when  on  one  occasion  we  raised  the  curtain 
upon  a  blank  stage  :  no  actor,  no  furniture  to  be  seen,  and 
then  the  curtain  was  lowered.  Of  course,  the  word  was 
"  Nothing,"  and  as  the  proverb  was  "  Nothing  venture, 
nothing  have,"  the  same  mysterious  and  uninteresting 
scene  was  given  twice  ;  but  in  compensation,  the  words 
"  Venture  "  and  "  Have  "  were  startlingly  full  of  incident 
and  noise. 

What  about  Pagildeafilda  in  all  these  scenes  He  was 
just  the  ready  creature,  obedient,  unselfish,  doing  his  best 
in  everything  he  was  given  to  do,  good-naturedly  joining 
in  folly,  if  folly  was  the  order  of  the  hour  ;  patiently 
fulfilling  any  duty,  small  or  conspicuous,  which  was  put 
upon  him  ;  wholly  lacking  in  self-consciousness,  he  felt  no 
misgiving  and  showed  no  hesitation  in  playing  the  fool. 

Times  changed  :  the  house  in  which  such  antics  were 
played  was  given  up  :  the  father  who  had  encouraged  with 
genuine  interest  and  applauded  with  frank  appreciation  our 
boyish  efforts  died  one  spring  day,  and  the  act  was  over. 

Pagildeafilda  went  abroad  to  South  America.    There  he 


COUSINS  AND  BROTHER 


23 


was  as  a  clerk  the  same  faithful,  uncomplaining,  conscientious 
creature  that  he  had  ever  been.  Those  hideous  insects — 
the  pests  of  the  newcomer — attacked  his  feet.  He  was 
crippled  so  much  that  he  could  not  walk  from  his  lodgings 
to  his  place  of  business.  He  said  nothing  :  no  one  knew 
the  agony  he  was  suffering  :  no  one  realized  the  heroism  of 
his  conscientious  devotion  to  his  duty.  Only  afterwards  it 
was  discovered  that,  as  he  could  not  walk,  he  had  made  his 
bed  under  the  office  counter,  so  that  he  never  missed  his 
daily  duty. 

Later  he  returned  to  England  :  he  lived  a  quiet  life — 
helping  others.  He  never  married  :  the  key  to  his  single 
life  was  his  unselfishness  :  he  could  help  the  more  easily 
his  own  kinsfolk,  being  unmarried. 

To  the  end  he  was  the  same  :  always  kindly,  always 
brimful  of  good  nature  :  interested  keenly  in  others  :  the 
self-denying  friend  in  the  house,  who  exhausted  himself  in 
playing  with  the  children,  who  was  ready  to  run  any  errand 
if  thereby  he  could  save  a  friend  any  anxiety  or  fatigue. 

I  remember  how  once  at  Ripon,  when  he  must  have 
been  over  fifty  years  of  age,  he  consented  to  attempt  to 
dance  the  Scottish  sword  dance.  We  put  down  the  poker 
and  shovel  to  represent  the  crossed  swords,  and  dear 
Pagildeafilda  pounded  out  in  middle-aged  fashion  the  dance 
which  of  all  dances  needs  lightness,  brightness  and  delicate 
accuracy.  It  would  have  been  ludicrous  but  for  the  sweet, 
unselfconscious  good  nature  which  began  and  carried  through 
the  solemn  performance. 

There  !  it  is  only  a  sketch  of  a  good,  sincerely  kind 
and  half-heroic,  half-pathetic  figure — a  man  who  lived  an 


24         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


obscure  and  uneventful  life  without  a  wide  outlook,  perhaps, 
without  the  companionship  of  rich  imaginings  and  glowing 
fancies,  without  great  ambitions,  without  grave  discontents, 
who,  without  envy  of  others  or  repining  at  his  lot,  accepted 
the  limitations  of  his  life,  fulfilled  his  daily  task  dutifully, 
thought  much  of  others  and  little  of  self,  and  reaped  without 
probably  realizing  what  he  was  reaping — the  harvest  of  that 
homage  of  respect  and  affection  which  always  waits  upon 
those  who  are  true  of  heart. 


MY  BROTHER  HENRY 


"  Poeta  nascitur,''  said  an  Oxford  examiner,  as  a  young 
man  retired  from  his  examination.  It  expressed  the  truth,  for 
my  brother  Henry  was  always  poetic.  He  dreamed  always : 
he  would  forget  his  errand  because  carried  away  into  another 
world.  He  hated  all  disagreeable  things,  and  he  would 
always  shirk  facing  them.  He  did  not  see  why  life  should 
not  be  pleasant,  and  I  am  bound  to  say  that  he  had  great 
ability  in  making  things  pleasant.  He  could  talk  well,  and 
he  could  play  the  fool  with  a  happy  grace.  He  had  his 
moods.  Now  he  was  overwhelmed  with  some  great  and 
intolerable  grief  ;  but  it  passed  like  a  cloud,  and  he  would 
soon  be  all  smiles  and  sunshine. 

How  well  I  remember  a  night  at  Cambridge,  when  I 

was  startled  by  a  visit  from  the  college  porter  :  he  told 

me  that  a  gentleman  wanted  to  see  me.     It  was  after 

hours  :  it  must  have  been  1 1  p.m.  ;  the  college  gates  were 

shut,  and  it  was  against  rules  to  let  strangers  in.    I  went 

down  my  staircase  and  crossed  over  to  the  porter's  lodge  ; 

there,  in  the  dim  light  of  the  lodge  entrance,  stood  my 

brother  Henry,  looking  the  picture  of  misery.    The  porter 

seemed   moved   with   compassion,    for    he    said,  "The 

gentleman  can  come  in  if  he  will  promise  to  leave  before 

midnight."    So,  against  rules,  my  brother  Henry  came  to 

my  rooms,  and  unfolded  his  tale  of  sorrow.  "  Oh,  mummy  " 
25 


26         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


(he  always  called  me  this),  "  it  is  hard  when  one  has  sur- 
rendered one's  heart  to  another's  keeping,  to  have  it 
suddenly  flung  back,  as  though  it  were  a  worthless  thing. 
I  thought  her  all  gentle  innocence  and  loyal  faith  ;  but 
now,  now,"  etc. 

All  this  was  Aramaic  to  me,  yet  the  gist  of  it  was 
obvious  :  he  had  been  fascinated  by  some  Oxford  girl,  and 
he  had  brought  his  broken  heart  over  to  Cambridge.  I 
made  him  take  some  food,  and  let  him  tell  his  story. 
Faithful  to  the  pledge  to  the  porter,  he  left  me  about  mid- 
night. I  saw  him  to  the  lodge  gate  :  he  went  to  his  hotel, 
promising  to  join  me  at  breakfast  in  the  morning. 

I  went  to  bed,  dreading  the  morning,  and  wondering 
how  I  was  to  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  or  how  to  piece 
together  the  fragments  of  a  broken  heart.  In  the  morning 
I  was  up  betimes  :  chapel  was  over  ;  breakfast  was  set,  and 
I  awaited  with  some  anxiety  my  sorrow-stricken  brother. 
About  nine  o'clock  he  entered — radiant,  smiling.  He 
glanced  round  the  room  :  he  looked  where  the  breakfast 
was  laid,  solemn  and  stiff,  on  the  large  centre  table.  "  Oh, 
mummy,"  he  said,  dragging  a  small  table  into  the  window, 
"  let's  have  breakfast  in  the  window."  He  was  quite  right. 
There  the  sun  was  peeping  round  the  corner  :.  there  was 
brightness  and  the  sense  of  the  smile  of  morning  ;  the 
centre  of  the  room  had  no  inspiration  in  it.  So  in  the 
window  we  sat  and  had  our  breakfast.  Sorrow  had  hardly 
endured  through  the  night  :  joy  had  come  in  the  morning. 
My  brother  stayed  a  couple  of  days.  My  own  college 
friends  came  in  to  see  him  :  we  lunched  at  one  another's 
rooms,  and  my  brother,  like  a  man  who  had  never  known 


MY  BROTHER  HENRY 


27 


a  care,  was  the  life  of  the  party — full  of  fun,  sprightly  in 
speech.  He  enjoyed  himself,  and  it  did  one  good  to  see 
his  enjoyment.    I  think  he  went  back  to  Oxford  heart  whole. 

Of  course  there  were  other  affairs  :  they  meant  the 
whole  world  while  they  lasted,  but  they  were  only  passing 
clouds.    The  sun  was  sure  to  come  out  later  on. 

Mercurial,  fascinating,  affectionate,  magnanimous,  he 
was  a  delightful  companion,  when  you  could  catch, him  in 
the  mood.  Of  course,  he  was  uncertain.  Make  an 
arrangement  to  meet  ?  Well,  it  might  be  tried,  but  it 
was  much  wiser  to  leave  all  meetings  to  happy  chance. 
Once  I  agreed  to  meet  him  in  London  :  he  would  come 
from  Oxford  by  a  particular  train.  I  went  to  Paddington  : 
I  paced  the  platform  :  I  met  more  than  one  train.  I  waited 
so  long  that,  when  I  rejoined  a  Cambridge  friend,  we  were 
late  for  the  proposed  expedition.  The  next  day  we  were 
reviewed,  as  Volunteers,  in  Hyde  Park.  At  an  interval 
we  were  allowed  to  break  rank  and  hunt  up  our  Oxford 
friends.  1  found  my  brother  Henry.  Foolishly,  I  began 
with  reproach  :  "  Why  didn't  you  come  up  by  the  train  you 
promised  ?  "  It  was  all  in  vain  :  why  face  disagreeable 
things  OfF  my  Henry  was  flouncing.  When  I  cried 
after  him,  "  You  might  tell  me  where  you  are  staying  !  " 
"  Marshall  Thompson's  Hotel."  This  was  all  I  could  get 
from  him.  It  was  a  waste  of  time  to  be  vexed  with  him  : 
he  compelled  affection  in  spite  of  any  little  erratic  proceed- 
ing. His  magnetism  never  failed.  When  thinking  of  him. 
Goldsmith's  lines  about  Garrick  begin  to  ring  in  my  ears — 

"  He  threw  off  his  friends  like  a  hunter  his  pack, 
For  he  knew  when  he  chose  he  could  whistle  them  back." 


28         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


His  magnetism  was  due  to  the  unspoilt  childlikeness  of 
his  nature — generous,  impulsive,  large-hearted,  he  could 
rejoice  with  those  that  rejoiced — the  hardest  task  of  a 
jealous  nature — but  jealousy  he  had  none. 

He  fulfilled  the  promise  of  his  youth,  and  the  eulogy  of 
the  Oxford  examiner.  When  he  was  assistant  master  at 
Portora  School — called  the  Eton  of  Ireland — the  Earl  of 
Carlisle,  then  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  visited  the  school. 
My  brother  Henry  wrote  some  verses  of  welcome  for  the 
occasion  :  in  them  the  task  of  the  schoolmasters,  who 
looked  forward  to  the  approaching  holidays  with  happiness 
as  keen  as  that  of  their  pupils,  was  portrayed  thus  :  all  had 
looked  forward  to  the  end  of  term — 

"  But  chiefly  we,  whose  life  is  only  seen 
As  rills  which  make  their  shrouding  grass  more  green, 
Whose  task  it  is,  with  ever-fostering  care. 
To  teach  the  opening  bud  to  bloom  more  fair. 
From  treasured  Past  and  Present  to  unroll 
The  first  faint  stream  of  glories  on  the  soul. 
To  watch  and  work,  from  morn  to  even  chime, 
Train  the  wild  beast  in  Boyhood's  fiery  prime. 
Shape  fancy's  flight  our  mission  to  fulfil. 
Prompt  the  slow  thought  and  chain  the  rebel  will." 

Lord  Carlisle's  contributions  to  literature  were  not 
forgotten.  The  metrical  paraphrase  of  the  eighth  chapter 
of  Daniel  was  thus  alluded  to — 

"  Once  did  thy  hand  the  seer's  dark  page  unroll, 
To  thrid  the  mazes  of  his  hallowed  scroll  ; 
Lost  in  deep  wondering  trance,  thine  eye  explored 
The  far-off  promise  of  the  unerring  word  ; 
The  years  rolled  back 'their  veil,  and  thou  didst  see 
The  measured  march  of  glorious  days  to  be. 
Didst  watch  thro'  Heaven  the  soaring  wing  of  fire. 
And  strike  one  chord  on  Judah's  burning  lyre." 


MY  BROTHER  HENRY 


29 


The  following  lines,  which  were  written  with  the 
memory  of  Lord  Carlisle's  book  entitled,  A  Diary  in 
Turkish  and  Greek  Waters^  may  have  some  special  interest 
for  us  who  are  watching  the  painful  struggle  in  the  Near 
East,  wondering  at  the  tortuous  vacillations  of  dishonoured 
Greece,  and  expecting  the  last  days  of  Turkish  misrule — 

"  Or  didst  thou  trace  for  us,  with  glowing  pen. 
Thy  wandering  footsteps  among  distant  men  ; 
Still  ever  on  with  each  recorded  day. 
We  glided  with  thee  o'er  thy  watery  way  ; 
Dropped  our  glad  anchor  under  mountain  steep, 
Stemmed  the  broad  tide  of  Helle's  purple  deep, 
Or,  couched  by  classic  stream  and  mouldering  fane, 
Saw  high  o'erhead  the  Moslem  crescent  wane. 
Ever  for  us  enthroned  in  dazzling  snows. 
Once  home  of  gods,  Olympus  grandly  rose  ; 
Still  leaped  through  trellised  vine  and  smooth  rock-layers, 
The  crystal  fountain  down  its  marble  stairs." 

Ten  years  later,  my  brother  settled  in  America.  There 
he  found  friends,  who  loved  his  fresh  and  boyish  character, 
his  wide  capacity  of  delight  in  all  things  beautiful,  his  charm 
of  manner  and  of  speech.  There  his  poetic  fancy  blossomed 
into  more  adventurous  song.  Besides  minor  pieces,  he 
brought  out  a  volume,  entitled  Liber  Amoris^  containing  a 
poem  in  four  books,  or,  as  he  called  them,  watches.  The 
first  watch  was  introduced  by  a  wind  song  ;  the  second  by  a 
moon  song  ;  the  third  by  a  star  song,  and  the  fourth  by  a 
pawn  song.  A  story  like  a  silver  thread  bound  the  four 
watches  into  one  complete  night  watch.  The  story  in  its 
setting  was  mediaeval ;  but  it  was  intended  to  shadow  forth 
the  changes  in  religious  conception  which  might  be  expected 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


when  the  undercurrents  of  modern  thought  had  influenced 
the  stream  of  popular  opinion. 

The  prologue  tells  the  general  thought  and  explains  the 
title  of  the  poem — 

" '  Behold  the  Book  of  Love,'  said  then  the  seer  ; 
'  Take  it  and  hold  it  warm  within  thy  robe, 
Next  thy  heart's  pulses.    On  its  leaves  each  day 
Great  Love's  invisible  finger  creeping  soft 
And  slow,  as  with  a  sunbeam  shall  inscribe 
All  things  whatever  in  his  name  thou  doest. 

Know,  therefore,  that  whatsoever  in  pure  Love 
Thou  doest  is  straightway  writ  within  this  book. 
Look  to't.    For  when  Love  comes.  He  opens  this, 
And  from  this  reads  to  every  soul  its  doom.'  " 

The  appreciation  or  realization  of  this  principle  will  be 
seen,  in  the  days  when  the  present  activities  of  religious 
thought  have  fulfilled  themselves.  This  is  expressed  in  the 
last  scene,  when  the  narrator  is  dying  :  a  fading  fire,  emblem 
of  closing  life,  burns  fitfully  in  the  room — 

"  On  this  low  hearth-fire,  dying  as  I  die  ; 
See  its  last  tongue  of  flame,  that  slowly  spires 
Upward  and  seems  a  monumental  light 
Unquenchable,  lifting  its  ensign  high 
Above  the  grey  dust  of  each  buried  spark. 
O  tarry  a  moment  till  I  take-  from  thee 
A  prophesying  symbol  of  the  day, 
Whose  dawn  already  whitens  through  the  East  ! 
The  Hour  is  coming — hear  ye  not  her  feet 
Falling  in  sweet  sphere-thunder  down  the  stairs 
Of  Love's  pure  sky  ?    When  this  our  holy  Church 
Shall  melt  away  in  ever-widening  walls. 
And  be  for  all  mankind,  and  in  its  place 
A  mightier  Church  shall  come,  whose  covenant  word 


MY  BROTHER  HENRY 


31 


Shall  be  the  deeds  of  love.    Not  Credo  then, — 

Amo  shall  be  the  password  through  its  gates. 

Man  shall  not  ask  his  brother  any  more 

'  Believest  thou  ? '  but  *  Lovest  thou  ? '  and  all 

Shall  answer  at  God's  altar,  *  Lord,  I  love.' 

For  Hope  may  anchor,  Faith  may  steer,  but  Love, 

Great  Love  alone,  is  captain  of  the  soul." 

This  poem  won  rapid  recognition  in  America,  and 
among  those  who  cordially  acknowledged  its  merits  were  the 
poet  and  essayist,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  It  is  pleasant 
to  give  the  story  of  their  recognition  in  my  brother's  own 
words. 

"  I  sent  or  asked  the  Ticknors  to  send  a  copy  of  the 
second  edition  of  the  poem.  ...  I  can  only  say  in  its 
behalf  that  the  whole  story,  plot  and  characters  are  original, 
and  conceived  and  carried  out  on  a  definite  plan.  I  enjoyed 
writing  it.  By  some  special  benediction  it  has  given  me, 
according  to  Dr.  O.  W.  Holmes,  a  first-class  place  among 
writers  of  verse.  I  hardly  think  I  would  like  to  say  this  to 
any  but  you.  It  sounds  self-conceited.  But  I  hope  such 
feelings  are  not  within  me." 

In  1887  he  went  for  a  year's  tour  to  the  Mediterranean. 
In  this  trip  he  was  able  to  gratify  his  long-felt  wish  to  visit 
Greece.  As  the  steamer  drew  near  to  its  classic  shores, 
his  eager  enthusiasm  knew  no  bounds  :  he  began  to  climb 
high  upon  the  mast  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  land  of 
his  studies  and  his  dreams.  After  this  tour  he  returned 
with  fresh  inspirations  for  his  work.  He  gave  courses  of 
lectures,  and  prepared  for  an  extended  tour  through  the 
States  ;  but  he  did  not  live  to  accomplish  this  purpose. 

On  the  evening  of  July  16,  1890,  he  entertained  a 


32         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


party  of  friends  with  his  usual  vivacity  and  fascination  ;  he 
was  full  of  plans,  hopes  and  high  spirits  ;  but  the  next 
morning  brought  the  end.  As  he  was  dressing,  he  fell  ; 
a  clot  of  blood  had  reached  the  heart.  The  editor  of  his 
posthumous  work  wrote  in  a  kind  and  generously  appre- 
ciative preface  :  "  the  warm  heart  had  ceased  to  throb,  the 
gifted  brain  was  dead,  the  eloquent  tongue  was  silent  for 
ever."  "  Happily,"  continued  the  same  writer,  "  the 
world  has  not  lost  his  beautiful  lyrics.  The  poet  remains, 
though  the  orator's  voice  be  silent.  Dearer  than  either, 
remains  the  memory  of  the  man,  simple,  frank,  kindly, 
generous  in  thought  and  word  and  deed.  Peace  to  his 
gentle  spirit." 

So  wrote  Mr.  James  Jeffrey  Roche  in  his  preface  to 
a  volume  entitled,  A  Poefs  Last  Songs.  The  last  songs 
contained  many  delightful  pieces.  Three  of  these  I  give, 
feeling  sure  that  their  thought  and  music  will  be  welcome 
to  those  who  are  strangers  to  this  work. 


ANTITHETA 

"  'Ek  tHiv  evavTtojv  /caAXtcrrj;  apfxovui. 

Aristotle. 

Lo,  Death  and  Sorrow  and  Pain  are  sweet, 
And  Life  and  Pleasure  and  joy  are  good  ; 

And  these  are  one  and  as  one  shall  meet, 
When  all  we  feel  shall  be  understood. 

Then  lift  thy  face  into  Sorrow's  rain, 

Yea,  deem  it  sweet  as  the  spring's  young  breath  ; 
Stoop  low  and  drink  of  the  pool  of  Pain, 

Dip  thy  Life's  urn  in  the  well  of  Death. 


MY  BROTHER  HENRY 


For  Blis3  is  painlike,  and  Pain  is  bliss, 

And  Love  must  weep  till  the  dawn  of  day. 

Then  Death  shall  waken  at  Life's  warm  kiss, 
And  Joy  wed  Sorrow  in  smiles  for  aye. 


PEARLS 

Say  not  :  I  never  throw  to  fool  or  clown 

My  goodly  pearls ;  for  swine  I  ne'er  amassed  them. 

Say  rather  :  Are  these  pearls  which  I  cast  down, 
And  are  those  always  swine  to  whom  I  cast  them  ? 


NON  SINE  LACHRTMIS 

It  was  that  hour  when  vernal  Earth 

And  stormy  March  prepare 
For  the  first  day  of  April's  tearful  birth. 

That  I,  o'ercome  with  care, 
Rose  in  the  twilight  from  a  fireless  hearth. 

To  take  the  fresh  first  air. 

And  smile  at  morning's  mirth. 

Tired  with  old  grief's  self-pitying  moan, 

A  mile  I  had  not  strayed 
Ere  my  dire  path  grew  dark  with  double  zone 

Of  men  full  fair  arrayed  ; 
While  blast  with  sound  as  battle-trumpets  blown, 

Came,  as  through  light  comes  shade, 

Cries  like  an  undertone. 

Plumed  with  torn  cloud,  March  led  the  way. 
With  spear-point  keen  for  thrust. 
And  eager  eyes,  and  harnessed  form  swathed  grey 

With  drifts  of  wind-blown  dust. 
Round  his  bruised  buckher,  in  bright  letters,  lay 
This  scroll  which  toilers  trust  : 
Non  sine  pulvere. 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


Wet  as  from  weltering  showers  and  seat, 
April  came  after  him. 
He  held  a  cup  with  saddest  imageries 

Engraven,  and  round  the  rim, 
Worn  with  woe's  lip,  I  spelt  out  words  like  these. 
All  sorrow-stained  and  dim  : 
Non  sine  lachrymis. 

These  passed  like  regal  spirits  crowned, 

Strong  March  and  April  fair, 
And  then  a  sphere-made  music  slow  unwound 

Its  soul  upon  the  air  ; 
And  soft  as  exhalations  from  the  ground, 

Or  spring  flowers  here  and  there 

These  words  rose  through  the  sound  : 

"  Man  needs  these  two  for  this  world's  moil, 

Earth's  drought  and  dew  of  spheres, 
Grief's  freshening  rain  to  lay  the  dust  of  toil, 

Toil's  dust  to  dry  the  tears. 
To  all  who  rise  as  wrestlers  in  life's  coil. 

Time  brings  with  days  and  years 

The  wrestler's  sand  and  oil." 

O  toil  in  vain,  without  surcease  ! 

O  Grief  no  hand  may  stay  ! 
Think  on  these  words  when  work  or  woes  increase  : 

Man,  made  of  tears  and  clay. 
Grows  to  full  stature  and  God's  perfect  peace, 

Non  sine  pulvere 

Non  sine  lachrymis. 


MY  BEATRICE 


I  WONDER  whether  we  shall  ever  be  able  to  estimate 
rightly  the  value  of  unconscious  influence.  We  meet 
one  another  :  we  speak  :  we  laugh  and  exchange  a  few 
thoughts  :  we  part  ;  but  as  no  force  is  lost,  some  measure 
of  mutual  influence  must  have  been  exchanged.  As  the 
planet  flies  along  its  orbit,  it  is  disturbed  in  its  course, 
I  suppose,  by  every  body  which  comes  within  range  of 
it.  But  the  disturbance  is  only  temporary  :  the  planet 
may  have  swerved  for  a  moment,  but  its  course  is 
unchanged.  Such,  I  suppose,  may  represent  the  passing 
influences  to  which  each  of  us  is  subject  in  the  inter- 
course of  life.  I  cannot,  perhaps,  measure  the  force  of 
each  several  influence,  but  I  know  that  after  converse 
with  one,  I  feel  a  sensible  exhilaration  :  I  go  with  a  better 
confidence  back  to  my  work  ;  after  converse  with  another, 
I  feel  unable  to  settle  down  :  my  centre  of  gravity  has 
been  disturbed  ;  I  am — no,  not  irritated,  but  perhaps 
thrown  ofF  my  balance  ;  after  converse  with  a  third,  I  am 
wholly  depressed  :  power,  alacrity  of  thought,  hopefulness 
in  effort,  has  been  diminished.  The  subtle  influences  of 
personality  make  themselves  felt. 

This  is  all  preface  to  one  chapter  in  my  life.  The 
one  whose  influence  is  in  my  thoughts  as  I  write,  knows 
little  and  probably  cares  less  about  the  matter.  Our  lives 
35 


36         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


have  drifted  apart.  When  last  she  wished  me  to  know 
of  a  family  bereavement,  she  sent  word  to  me  through 
another  channel,  pleading  that  she  did  not  know  where 
to  find  me — and  yet  she  was  Beatrice  to  me. 

I  have  always  wondered  at  the  discussions  respecting 
Dante's  Beatrice,  The  whole  story  was  so  clear  to  me  : 
it  was  written  large  in  my  experience  from  the  time  when 
I  was  fifteen  years  old  till  the  time  when  I  was  swept 
into  the  current  of  busy  life  in  full  manhood. 

No,  I  am  not  going  to  give  her  name.  She  will  never 
read  this  story,  and  if  she  did  she  would  not  recognize 
herself.  I  shall  call  her  my  Beatrice  ;  and  I  can  only  say 
of  her — she  never  realized  and  she  will  never  know  the 
deep,  strong,  and  all-pervading  character  of  her  influence. 
She  was  two  years  older  than  I  :  and  she  was  goddess  and 
counsellor  to  me.  I  have  all  her  letters — though  fifty  years 
have  passed,  1  keep  them  as  sacred  :  the  spell  of  what  she 
once  was  to  me  still  remains. 

It  is  folly,  you  will  say,  to  write  of  such  things.  Is 
it  I  doubt  it.  I  want  women  to  know  what  they  can 
be  in  the  lives  of  boys  and  young  men.  I  want  them  to 
realize  the  deep  worshipfulness  of  spirit  which  they  can 
evoke  and  foster  ;  for  she  was  God's  minister  to  me,  and 
through  her  all  my  life  seemed  sacred  in  the  dangerous 
years,  those  narrow  straits  of  life  which  connect  boyhood 
and  manhood.  These  are  the  years  in  which  those  changes 
come  which  whisper  strange  secrets,  and  weave  the  spell 
of  larger  responsibility  about  the  soul  :  then  the  sense  of 
new  and  greater  things  visits  the  spirit  :  it  reaches  out 
towards  something  beyond,  it  is  ripe  for  religion. 


MY  BEATRICE 


37 


As  it  happened,  the  time  of  which  I  speak  was  one  of 
religious  revival  :  a  spirit  of  excitement  and  expectancy- 
was  abroad.  In  the  heavens  were  signs  :  the  tail  of  a 
gigantic  comet  hung  for  many  nights  in  the  forehead  of 
the  sky  :  its  length  measured  out  an  arc  which  filled  one- 
third  of  the  heaven  above.  The  signs  portended  great 
things  :  the  end  of  the  world  perchance  was  near  ;  an 
atmosphere  of  religiosity  spread  everywhere — a  great 
evangelist  visited  Liverpool,  and  made  a  deep  impression. 
It  was,  as  people  said,  a  harvest  time  of  souls.  Whether 
this  atmosphere  drew  very  closely  round  the  thoughts  or 
feelings  of  my  Beatrice,  I  cannot  say  ;  or  whether  a  native 
simplicity  of  piety,  which  had  grown  up  in  quietness,  was 
hers,  undisturbed  by  prevailing  fashions — I  cannot  say. 
One  thing  was  true  :  she  became  to  me  a  sweet  spiritual 
mentor. 

Let  me  turn  out  the  long-cherished  memorials  of  those 
days,  and  of  that  sweet  influence.  Here  is  a  tiny  scrap 
of  paper,  not  more  than  an  inch  long  :  it  is  folded  and 
within  is  written  a  Bible  text.  She  has  put  it  into  my 
hand  as  I  left  church,  or  as  we  parted,  and  said  Good 
night.  You  will  be  inclined,  perhaps,  to  turn  disdainfully 
away  from  such  a  commonplace  thing  ;  but  consider  what 
it  meant  in  the  life  of  a  lad.  The  girl  was  my  worship  : 
all  the  romantic  power  of  one's  youthful,  unspoken  feeling 
streamed  towards  her ;  her  features  were  beautiful :  her 
colouring  just  bright  enough  to  satisfy — no  faded  hues 
weakened  her  features,  no  blatant  colours  coarsened  them  : 
her  eyes  looked  out  purely  and  with  a  reticent  or  self- 
respecting  intercstedncss  upon  life  ;  she  was  beautiful  and 


38         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


she  was  good,  and  the  power  she  exercised  gained  elevation 
from  the  religious  revival  spirit  which  was  abroad. 

The  language  of  religion  at  that  time  was  not  that  of 
to-day  :  this  must  be  kept  in  mind.  The  form  of  religion 
found  its  expression  in  hymns  which  sang  of  imminent 
peril  : 

"  Jesu  !  Lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  Thy  Bosom  fly. 


Other  refuge  have  I  none, 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee." 


Life  presented  a  scene  of  desolation  and  danger  :  all 
stood  in  need  of  some  ark  of  safety.  To  have  reached 
that  ark  was  the  one  thing  needful.  We  were  as  hunted 
creatures  flying  towards  a  city  of  refuge  :  the  avenger  of 
blood  was  on  our  track  :  time  was  precious  :  peril  was 
near.  Happy  he  who  could  win  the  gate  of  the  city 
before  the  inevitable  blow  of  the  avenger  could  fall. 
This  aspect  of  the  religious  life  was  more  highly  coloured 
by  the  widespread  expectation  of  our  Lord's  second 
coming  ;  in  the  case  of  my  Beatrice  it  was  brought  vividly 
to  mind  by  a  startling  incident  which  occurred  about  this 
time.  We  were  at  a  meeting  of  the  Society  for  Promoting 
Christianity  among  the  Jews.  We  were  in  the  gallery. 
A  small  disturbance  occurred  while  the  Bishop  of  Chester 
(Dr.  Graham)  was  speaking  :  its  meaning  was  not  under- 
stood till  Dr.  M*Neile  rose  to  speak,  when  under  deep 
emotion  he  told  us  that  the  disturbance  had  been  caused 
by  the  sudden  illness  and  death  of  a  man  in  the  body 
of  the  hall.    He  spoke  of   the  event,  and   he  made 


MY  BEATRICE 


39 


an  appeal  to  the  careless  and  indifFerent  :  the  event  was 
God's  voice  crying  to  every  man.  "In  such  an  hour  as 
ye  think  not  the  Son  of  Man  cometh,"  might  have  been 
the  text  of  his  appeal  that  night.  Every  one  was  deeply 
moved,  and  my  Beatrice  among  them.  That  night  when 
we  separated,  she  pressed  into  my  hand  a  scrap  of  paper,  in 
which  her  earnestness  expressed  itself.  It  ran  thus  :  "  Do 
not  rest  to-night  till  you  can  rest  in  Jesus.  Now  is  the 
accepted  time.  Pray,  pray."  This  breathes  the  spirit  of 
the  moment ;  who  can  say  that,  allowing  for  the  form, 
which  was  a  common  form  sixty  years  ago,  it  does  not 
express  the  eternal  truth  that  repose  and  peace  of  soul  can 
never  be  found  in  oneself,  and  can  only  be  found  in  One 
who  presents  to  us  those  divine  characteristics  which  imply 
stability  allied  with  those  human  characteristics  which  seem 
to  make  sympathy  possible  ? 

At  any  rate,  the  incident  shows  the  spirit  of  guardian- 
ship which  my  Beatrice  exercised  over  me  in  that  period  of 
my  life.  My  friendship  grew.  She  was  the  repository  of 
my  secret  ambitions  and  of  my  consciousness  of  the  weak 
unworthiness  of  those  ambitions.  Our  intercourse  was 
intermittent  :  her  dwelling-place  was  seldom  fixed  for  a 
long  time  in  one  place  ;  she  was  in  request,  now  to  look 
after  a  brother,  now  to  accompany  an  aunt  on  a  visit  ;  and 
I  was  soon  to  move  to  Cambridge  ;  so  personal  intercourse 
was  never  continuous  ;  but  our  interchange  of  letters  was, 
if  not  frequent,  yet  steady  ;  and  it  always  dealt  with  the 
higher  aspects  of  life — with  the  soul  and  its  difficulties, 
with  the  problems  of  Christian  experience,  with  the  inner 
conflict  and  the  heavenly  help. 


40         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


"  We  need,"  so  she  wrote  to  me  when  I  was  at  Cam- 
bridge, "  we  need  every  stimulating  help  :  the  way  seems 
at  times  so  rough  and  so  narrow,  and  the  light,  or  rather 
our  eyes,  so  dim.  How  much  easier  it  would  be,  if  we 
had  a  single  eye  to  the  glory  of  God.  I  was  rather  struck 
by  a  passage  in  a  little  book  I  was  reading  the  other  day  : 
'  It  is  upon  the  smooth  ice  we  slip  ;  the  rough  path  is  the 
safest  for  our  feet.'  ...  I  remember  you  in  what  you 
asked  for.  How  much  there  is  to  humble  pride  in  the 
world  ;  there  is  nothing  to  be  proud  of  ;  everything  is 
mixed  with  sin  and  defiled  in  the  eyes  of  a  Holy  God. 
God's  great  love  is  so  plainly  revealed  in  His  dealing  with 
us.  He  takes  down  my  pride  so  often,  but  in  such  a 
gentle  way.    Like  as  a  Father  He  pitieth  His  children. 

"  Your  last  letter  refers  to  the  time  when  we  began  to 
write  about  the  one  thing  needful.  How  well  God  arranges 
all  things  !  How  useless  this  correspondence  would  have 
been,  if  what  was  of  most  importance  had  been  left  out. 
"When  was  it  that  you  began  to  believe  in  Christ  as  your 
Saviour  ?  Flow  quickly  time  passes  !  I  did  not  think 
it  was  five  years  since  we  were  in  Llandudno — yet  how 
much  has  happened  since  then  to  warn  us  and  show  us  that 
all  things  are  changing  here.  We  have  no  abiding  city 
here  ;  '  all  flesh  is  grass,  and  all  the  glory  of  man  as  the 
flower  of  the  grass.'  I  have  heard  it  said  that  if  a  man 
lived  for  seventy  years,  the  first  thirty  years  of  his  life 
would  be  longer  than  the  last  forty.  '  It  is  high  time  to 
awake  out  of  sleep.'  We  must  be  up  and  doing  ;  the  past 
and  the  future  are  nothing  in  the  face  of  the  stern  to-day. 
It  is  no  use  to  expect  rest  while  the  enemy  is  near  at  hand ; 


MY  BEATRICE 


41 


rcsting-time  will  come  afterwards.  It  is  hard  to  be  prac- 
tical ;  theory  is  all  very  easy.  In  many  things  memory 
does  seem  like  a  curse  ;  I  often  wish  words  and  actions 
could  be  recalled,  and  thoughts  blotted  out,  but  there  they 
remain,  to  cure  us  of  our  pride  and  to  stir  us  up  to 
be  more  circumspect  in  the  future,  and  this  surely  is  a 
blessing." 

It  will  be  said  that  there  is  nothing  remarkable  in  this 
letter.  It  can  hardly  carry  force  or  light  to  those  who  read 
it  in  cold  blood,  with  more  than  half  a  century  between 
them  and  the  date  of  the  letter.  I  give  it  not  as  a  contribu- 
tion to  present-day  thought,  but  as  a  record  of  the  sweet 
and  earnest  spirit  which  this  dear  guardian  friend  of  mine 
showed  me  in  my  youth.  She  was  mentor  and  confidante. 
Always  the  note  of  higher  things  was  struck  in  her  letters  : 
they  came  to  me  like  angels'  visits  ;  they  brought  their 
appeal  and  their  power  of  caution  ;  they  were  a  true 
ministry  to  me,  all  the  more  powerful  because  they  came 
from  one  who  to  me  was  the  embodiment  of  beautiful, 
pure,  and  God-loving  womanhood.  Her  influence  central- 
ized for  the  moment  my  life,  by  drawing  it  nearer  to  its 
true  centre,  which  is  God.  How  much  it  meant  in  its 
steadying  and  uplifting  power  I  can  never  tell ;  but  it  made 
all  women  sacred  and  worshipful  in  my  eyes.  Always  the 
memory  and  the  thought  of  her  brought  a  consecration 
upon  all  things,  and  rough  and  coarse  talk,  and  the  doubtful 
tales  which  sometimes  floated  through  university  life,  were 
hateful  to  me. 

It  may  be  that  some  will  read  youth's  romance  and 
nothing  else  in  this  little  record  of  an  early  influence.  I 


4^         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


do  not  dispute  it  if  they  will  so  read  it ;  but  as  I  look  back, 
I  feel  that  God  uses  all  experiences  of  life  to  achieve  some 
good,  and  that  among  these  experiences  the  high  worshipful 
affection  which  a  growing  lad  may  feel  for  a  girl  somewhat 
older  than  himself  is  no  mean  power  to  mould,  to  disci- 
pline, to  prepare,  and  even  to  inspire  his  life.  At  any  rate, 
though  for  more  years  than  I  care  to  recall  my  life  has 
been  sundered  from  that  of  my  Beatrice,  I  look  back  with 
glad  thankfulness  to  the  time  when  her  gentle  and  unselfish 
vigilance  seemed  to  watch  over  my  growing  years.  I  know 
that  she  made  womanhood  sacred  to  me,  and  I  think  that 
the  serious  trend  of  my  life  owed  much  to  the  spiritual 
influence  with  which  she  filled  the  atmosphere  of  my  early 
life.  She,  perhaps,  has  forgotten  all  this,  perhaps  never 
realized  that  she  was  exercising  any  influence  at  all,  and 
perhaps  she  will  never  know  how  I  bless  God  for  all  she 
was  to  me. 

Do  not  chide  me  that  I  set  these  thoughts  down  as  I 
recall  past  days.  We  live  in  an  age  in  which  there  seems  a 
feverish  desire  to  advertise  our  beneficence  ;  we  are  restless 
till  we  know  that  our  philanthropies  have  been  duly  chron- 
icled and  amply  applauded  ;  we  are  eager  to  see  results, 
and  to  receive  assurance  that  our  influence  is  known, 
recognized  and  appreciated.  Are  we  wise  .''  Are  wc  not 
brushing  the  bloom  off  goodness  in  making  it  public  ?  Is 
there  not  a  charm  and  a  special  virtue  about  the  quiet  in- 
fluence of  such  as  do  not  "  strive,  nor  cry,  nor  let  their 
voices  be  heard  in  the  street."  Is  there  not  a  lesson  to  be 
learned  from  Him  who  so  often  deprecated  publicity,  giving 
the  caution,  "  See  thou  tell  no  man  "  .'' 


MY  BEATRICE 


43 


As  I  believe  that  there  is  a  special  fragrance  about  the 
unrecorded  influences  of  life,  I  have  chronicled  my  own 
experience  of  such  an  influence.  May  it  bring  a  message  of 
hope  and  comfort  to  those  who,  perhaps,  are  depressed 
because  they  seem  to  have  been  sowing  and  have  never  been 
called  to  reap.  The  silent  influences  of  life  may  be  the  most 
abiding,  and  those  which  have  never  found  their  way  into 
print  may  be  written  in  heaven  and  in  the  hearts  of  those 
who  do  not  forget. 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW 


There  are  sacred  places  in  our  memories  as  there  are 
churches  in  our  cities — places  which  none  may  enter  save 
with  reverence  of  heart.  We  uncover  the  head  if  we  arc 
Westerns,  we  take  off  our  shoes  if  we  are  Easterns  ;  the 
fashion  is  different,  but  the  spirit  is  the  same.  We  are 
filled  with  the  spirit  of  reverence  :  the  sense  of  the  unseen 
is  here.  I  ask  no  man  to  read  this  chapter  who  does  not 
know  what  reverence  means.  Nay,  reader,  if  your  soul 
knows  nothing  of  the  awfulness  of  life's  sweet  and  simple 
things,  if  you  cannot  see  how  beauty  may  dwell  among 
foolish  things,  or  cannot  hear  the  sound  of  tears  amid  the 
laughter  of  life,  then,  I  pray  you,  pass  on  and  leave  this 
chapter  unread,  for  I  think  that,  though  I  do  not  know 
you,  I  should  feel  some  passing  anguish  of  heart  if  a 
mocking  spirit  should  possess  you  while  you  read. 

Why  write  at  all  .''  some  will  ask  ;  why  write  at  all  if 
things  written  about  are  sacred  ?  Why  expose  your  heart 
to  mockery  ?  Friend,  you  are  right.  I  have  asked  myself 
the  same  question,  and  the  answer  is,  I  cannot  tell  you 
why — save  that  some  influence  which  I  cannot  explain 
moves  me  to  write.  It  seems  as  though  the  spirit  of  the 
past  has  a  power  over  the  present,  and  while  the  present 
says,  "  It  is  done  with — leave  it  ;  write  nothing  for  fear  of 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW 


writing  unwisely  or  unworthily,"  another  spirit  steals  nearer 
to  me,  and  says,  "  Write  ;  it  is  not  fitting  that  these  things 
should  be  forgotten  ;  they  were  once  your  life  ;  they 
formed  your  heart,  your  mind,  your  destiny.  The  sweet 
service  which  wrought  so  patiently  in  those  earlier  years 
ought  not  to  be  forgotten.  Your  heart  responds  to  me 
when  I  speak.  There  are,  moreover,  those  alive  and  at  your 
side  to-day  who  will  love  and  cherish  the  memories  you — 
and  you  only — can  record.  Do  not  fear  the  world.  Men 
and  women  who  have  loved  and  lost  will  understand  you.  In 
the  temple  of  sorrow  all  are  ready  to  worship  :  into  it  there 
entereth  nothing  that  can  defile."  So  I  write  of  things 
most  sacred. 

The  scene  is  an  English  vicarage.  The  house,  built  of 
yellowish  stone,  is  solid  and  square,  and  stands  with  a  quiet 
determination  upon  ground  which  falls  to  the  southward 
and  gives  a  pleasant  view  of  the  Chiltern  Hills.  The  door 
of  the  house  looks  to  the  east  ;  and  above  the  trees  and 
shrubs  which  surround  the  circular  carriage-drive,  the  church 
spire  can  be  seen  like  a  protecting  sentinel  of  the  village. 
Along  the  south  front  of  the  house  there  is  a  gravel  path 
flanked  by  a  croquet  ground  which  runs  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  house  into  the  kitchen  garden  on  the  west.  Up  and 
down  this  path  I  walked  with  my  brother-in-law,  William 
Peers,  and  his  bride.  The  sun  is  shining,  and  a  pleasant 
reminiscence  of  summer  and  warmth  is  in  the  air  ;  the 
church-bells,  harsh  and  jubilant,  are  clanging  with  earnest 
endeavour  to  tell  the  countryside  how  glad  they  are.  It 
is  my  wedding  day.  The  village  folk,  who  love  the  bride 
well  for  her  kindly  visits  and  cheery  sympathy,  have  erected 


46         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


a  triumphal  arch.  While  the  villagers  are  still  gossiping 
round  the  church  porch  or  near  the  verdant  arch,  I  am 
hearing  wise  and  kindly  words  from  my  brother-in-law  and 
his  wife  as  we  pace  the  garden  path.  "  Well,  if  you  two 
are  to  be  as  happy  as  we  are,"  says  my  brother-in-law  from 
his  superior  height  (he  is  six  feet  high)  and  his  older 
experience  of  wedded  life  (he  has  been  married  just  seven 
weeks),  "  you  will  be  happy  indeed."  I  murmur  some 
incoherent  but  grateful  words  of  thanks  for  the  implied 
wish,  and  the  conversation  continues  on  the  same  lines  of 
satisfaction  and  hope.  I  am  quite  content,  for  my  brother- 
in-law  was  my  best-loved  college  chum.  He  and  Taylor 
Whitehead  (of  whom  more  anon)  and  I  used  to  breakfast  with 
one  another  in  turn.  Nine  o'clock  was  the  breakfast  hour 
agreed  upon  :  by  a  majority  of  two  to  one  the  triumvirate 
voted  that  hour.  This  arrangement  gave  me  an  hour  for 
quiet  reading  before  breakfast,  as  I  came  out  of  chapel 
about  8  a.m.  ;  but  now  the  old  college  days  are  things  of 
the  past.  My  brother-in-law  is  a  staid  and  grave  married 
man  ;  he  is  curate  in  Tewkesbury,  and  we  have  promised 
to  spend  a  night  with  him  there  during  our  wedding  trip. 

But,  pleasant  as  is  the  garden  path  and  the  sympathetic 
talk  of  a  kindly  new-made  brother  and  sister,  the  anxious 
preparations  inside  the  vicarage  end  in  a  demand  for  our 
presence.  There  is  the  wedding  breakfast,  that  now  obso- 
lete institution.  The  wedding  breakfast  has  been  provided 
by  a  well-known  caterer  at  Oxford.  We  have  menu  cards 
printed  and  frilled  in  suggestive  fashion :  a  wedding  menu 
is  written  all  over  the  face  of  the  card.  I  am  seated  next 
to  the  bride:  we  occupy  the  most  conspicuous  place  at 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW  47 


the  table  :  we  eat  or  try  to  eat.  Over  me  there  hangs  the 
cloud  of  apprehension  :  the  breakfast  involves  speeches,  and 
I  cannot  escape  the  obligation  and  ordeal  of  returning 
thanks.  The  supreme  moment  has  come :  Mr.  Singleton, 
the  oldest  friend  of  the  family  present,  proposes  the  health 
of  the  bride  and  bridegroom.  He  is  a  man  of  sympathetic 
nature,  whose  thoughts  find  expression  along  emotional 
channels.  He  speaks  with  genuine  feeling,  and  therefore 
with  a  true  eloquence.  He  is  a  surprise  to  some  of  the 
company,  and  he  does  not  make  the  bridegroom's  task  easy. 
Tears  glisten  in  the  eyes  of  the  bride's  mother,  and  the 
emotional  wave  is  felt  by  many  of  the  company. 

The  inevitable  moment  has  come  :  I  cannot  escape  :  I 
am  on  my  feet :  I  take  refuge  in  the  proverb,  "  Brevity  is  the 
soul  of  wit " — I  am  sure  friends  would  wish  me  to  be  witty : 
therefore  I  shall  be  brief,  and  close  my  speech  with  a  simple 
Thank  you.  And  thus  the  alarming  moment  was  passed. 
The  feast  flags  :  there  are  signs  of  lethargy,  a  restlessness 
of  expectation  :  some  whispered  words,  and  significant 
nods  ;  and  the  bride  is  escorted  upstairs  to  change  for  the 
journey.  What  happened  in  that  interval  so  awkward  for 
all,  especially  for  me,  I  cannot  recollect,  except  that  my 
dear  old  father-in-law  took  me  to  his  room  and  placed  some 
unexpected  banknotes  in  my  hand,  and  with  his  happy  and 
generous  bonhomie,  wished  me  well.  This  was  a  pleasing 
incident  of  that  waiting  time :  it  is  pleasant  to  recall  it  now. 
Another  incident  I  recall,  because  it  startled  me  with  a 
pained  surprise.  A  good  lady,  well-meaning  and  coura- 
geous, a  friend  of  the  family,  caught  me  on  the  stairs  and 
implored  me  to  be  kind  to  the  bride.    I  felt  insulted,  I 


48         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


remember.  Perhaps  I  can  understand  her  better  now  ;  but, 
going  away  as  I  was,  with  the  dear  child  of  my  heart,  and 
with  a  knowledge  of  life  as  limited  as  that  of  a  girl,  I  was 
conscious  only  of  an  angered  resentment. 

However,  the  carriage  is  at  the  door  :  the  guests  crowd 
the  hall  ;  we  are  swept  along  amid  a  shower  of  incoherent 
words.  We  are  in  the  carriage  :  the  door  is  shut,  and  the 
stately  family  coach  wheels  out  of  the  drive.  We  gather 
ourselves  together  to  acknowledge  the  farewells  of  the 
villagers.  We  descend  the  crooked  steep  which  leads  to 
the  highroad  ;  we  are  sweeping  along  the  wide  highway 
which  leads  to  Oxford.  Tears  fill  my  little  bride's  eyes  as 
she  drives  away  from  her  home.  I  feel  a  pain,  half  resent- 
ful and  half  pitying.  Am  1  not  compensation  enough  for  all 
losses  ?  Foolish  and  inexperienced  heart  of  self-sufficient 
youth  !  But  soon  the  tears  are  dried  ;  the  drive  to  Oxford 
lasts  nearly  two  hours,  but  at  last  we  are  at  the  station. 
We  are  in  the  train  speeding  towards  Shrewsbury,  and  as 
we  fly  over  the  pleasant  fields,  the  great  sun,  sinking  in  a 
crimson  glory,  gives  us  a  splendid  farewell.  We  alight  at 
the  Raven  Hotel  in  Shrewsbury.  We  write  letters  to  tell 
how  we  have  sped.  We  read  together  the  twenty-third 
Psalm  —  the  sweet  psalm  of  pilgrimage  —  which,  some 
twelve  years  later,  I  was  to  read  to  her  again  when  the 
chill  shadow  of  death  was  drawing  near. 

Our  wedding  trip  was  a  joy  and  a  blunder  ;  a  joy  because 
we  were  together,  a  blunder  because  we  tried  to  show  an 
impartial  consideration  to  our  relatives.  The  result  was 
that  we  travelled  too  much.  Judge  of  it.  We  reached 
Dublin  on  Friday.    We  had  been  married  on  the  Wednes- 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW 


day.  My  friend,  Sheppard  Welland,  met  us  on  our  arrival, 
and  escorted  us  to  rooms  he  had  secured  for  us.  On  Sun- 
day I  read  for  the  Rev.  Thomas  Welland,  at  his  church  in 
Dublin.  The  next  week  we  were  in  Enniskillen,  where 
my  eldest  brother  was  living.  On  the  Friday  we  travelled 
to  Chester.  On  the  Saturday  we  reached  Tewkesbury,  to 
pay  a  visit  to  my  brother-in-law,  William  Peers.  Thence 
we  travelled  to  Dartmouth  :  my  wife's  father  and  mother 
were  there  on  a  visit  to  their  elder  son  John,  who  was  then 
on  board  the  Britannia.  From  Dartmouth  we  went  to 
London,  and  spent  a  night  with  a  friend  ;  on  Saturday  we 
reached  Maidstone.  We  had  thus  in  the  short  eighteen 
days  travelled  1400  miles.  We  were  tired  with  the  long 
journeys  and  the  attendant  excitements,  and  we  were  a 
ragged-looking  couple  when  we  reached  Maidstone,  and 
my  duties  began.  We  had  paid  too  much  attention  to 
our  relatives,  and  we  had  squandered  our  time  in  wearying 
travel. 

The  house  we  occupied  was  the  Old  Palace,  which  over- 
hung the  Medway ;  it  was  a  glorious  old  house,  once 
the  residence  of  the  Archbishops  of  Canterbury,  but  now 
divided  into  two  moderate,  and  more  or  less  convenient  or 
inconvenient  dwellings.  Lady  Frances  Riddell  occupied 
one  half,  and  we,  with  my  mother,  occupied  the  other. 
The  work  was  pleasant.  My  vicar,  the  Rev.  David  Dale 
Stewart,  one  of  the  kindest  and  dearest  of  men,  was  all 
that  a  young  curate  could  wish  :  kind,  wise,  sympathetic, 
helpful — with  some  amazing  Idlosyncracies,  but  free  from 
all  littleness  of  soul.  For  two  years  we  stayed  at  Maid- 
stone.   At  the  end  of  it  we  found  it  wise  to  move,  and  I 


so        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 

found  a  curacy  at  Clapham,  where  we  found  rooms  first  in 
the  Wandsworth  Road,  and  later  in  a  house  situated  in 
Lambourn  Road. 

I  wonder  whether  the  follies  of  a  couple  of  happy 
children  will  amuse  those  who  dwell  in  the  outside  world. 
We  were  sometimes  hard  pressed  in  those  days  ;  many  little 
things  which  we  wished  to  add  to  our  household  store  we 
were  obliged  to  forgo.  There  were  now  two  children,  a 
boy  and  a  girl,  to  be  cared  for.  Wages  had  increased  in 
consequence,  and  our  slender  resources  needed  careful 
handling.  I  remember  once  how  we  stood  together  outside 
a  jeweller's  or  silversmith's  shop — to  be  more  explicit,  it  was 
a  pawnbroker's — looking  longingly  at  a  small  silver  butter- 
knife,  which  we  coveted  for  our  breakfast  table  ;  we  hesi- 
tated ;  we  turned  away  our  eyes  from  the  tempting  vanity  ; 
we  left  the  arena  of  attraction,  and  only  after  some  days  of 
weighing  and  calculating  and  considering  did  we  indulge 
ourselves  in  the  much-wished-for  and  dainty  addition  to 
our  small  store.  Is  the  butter-knife  still  to  be  found 
among  our  possessions  ?  1  am  sure  that  it  was  never 
willingly  parted  with.  The  old  memory  of  those  lean  days 
and  our  courageous  purchase  of  it  gave  it  a  charm  beyond 
that  of  other  more  ostentatious  and  richer  things.  If  such 
little  incidents  have  any  interest,  this  also  may  be  added  : 
I  once  sold  a  waistcoat,  receiving  in  exchange  three  useful 
household  jugs.  No  !  don't  pity  us  ;  it  was  our  little  home 
nest,  our  first  home,  occupied  by  ourselves  alone  ;  it  was 
our  own  home,  in  a  sense  the  Palace  at  Maidstone  had 
never  been.  There  were  privations  ;  we  had  to  take 
thought  how  to  live  within  our  means.    Sometimes  a  great 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW 


anxiety  about  the  future  would  possess  my  heart,  for  the 
family  was  coming  on  apace  ;  but  self-denials  were  sweet, 
and  our  love  was  like  that  of  happy  birds  in  the  nest.  And 
that  dear  little  heart  at  my  side,  with  her  quiet,  childlike 
trust,  would  gently  chide  my  anxiety,  and  if  she  was  away 
she  would  write  me  one  of  her  simple-hearted  letters. 

"  I  don't  think,  darling,  that  we  have  any  right  to  begin 
to  complain  yet,  because  we  have  no  very  bright  prospects 
in  the  future.  We  never  have  been  left  to  want,  and  I  do 
not  anticipate  that  we  shall,  and  whatever  our  trials  may  be, 
we  can  remember  that  God  is  a  loving  Father  and  knows 
best,  and  then  what  a  blessing  it  is  that  we  love  one  another 
and  are  not  unhappy  as  some  people  are,  and  the  burdens 
won't  be  half  so  heavy  when  we  share  them  together  ;  will 
they,  darling  ? " 

The  keynote  of  all  letters  which  passed  between  us  was 
a  simple  trust  in  the  wise  providence  of  God.  Often  the 
sense  of  the  future  pressed  heavy  on  my  mind.  The  arrows 
in  the  quiver  were  many  ;  the  little  nest  was  growing  full, 
and  I  had  no  patron  ;  1  had  not  been  able  to  attach  myself 
to  any  party  in  the  Church  ;  there  was  no  powerful  body  of 
trustees  to  whom  I  could  look  for  preferment ;  I  had  no 
acquaintance  with  parliamentary  or  political  leaders.  With 
an  increasing  family,  and  no  influence,  often  the  outlook 
seemed  cloudy.  I  remember  once  my  elder  brother  con- 
fiding to  me  that  he  thought  he  might  reach  the  dignity  of 
an  archdeacon.  For  myself,  I  think  my  only  ambition  was 
to  have  a  secure  position  and  sufficient  to  provide  for 
the  dear  children,  who  were  romping  in  the  nursery.  The 
way  in  which,  at  last,  such  a  position  came  to  mc  I  have 


52         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


told  among  my  first  reminiscences.  The  provision  came 
when  it  was  needed,  and  the  first  chapter  of  my  home  life 
ended  with  a  happy  and  established  position  at  St.  James's, 
Holloway. 

Our  interests  were  our  home  and  our  work.  The  little 
nest  was  a  place  of  joy.  The  time  of  the  singing  of  birds 
was  come.  In  the  little  mother  and  in  the  children  my 
heart  found  a  gladness  which  was  not  satisfied  to  be  silent. 
How  could  the  sweet  witchery  of  wifehood  be  left  unsung  ? 

Little  eyes  gleaming 

What  do  they  say  ? 
Lovingly  beaming, 

What  do  they  say  ? 
Roguishly  dancing, 
Artfully  glancing. 
Always  entrancing, 

What  do  they  say  ? 

Little  eyes  sparkling. 

What  do  they  say  ? 
Light'ning  and  dark'ning. 

What  do  they  say  ? 
Timidly  turning. 
Wistfully  yearning. 
Tenderly  burning, 

What  do  they  say  ? 

Little  eyes  weary. 

What  do  they  say  ? 
Tell  to  me,  deary, 

What  do  they  say  ? 
Foolishly  fearful,  * 
Teasingly  tearful. 
Charmingly  cheerful. 

What  do  they  say  ? 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW 


Little  eyes  closing, 
What  do  they  say  ? 

Lightly  reposing, 
What  do  they  say  : 

Softly  awaking, 

Happy  looks  taking, 

Little  plans  making, 
What  do  they  say  .' 

Little  eyes  prayerful. 

What  do  they  say  ? 
Little  eyes  careful. 

What  do  they  say  ? 
Anxious  for  you,  love, 
Praying  for  you,  love. 
Trustful  of  you,  love. 
That's  what  they  say  ! 

In  a  summer  tempest  came  our  firstborn. 

A  mist  is  hanging  o'er  the  hills, 
And  darkness  hovers  o'er  the  land. 
While  in  the  west  a  golden  band 

With  brightening  hope  the  landscape  fills. 

The  stormy  tempest  swift  sweeps  by. 

The  rain  comes  streaming  from  the  cloud. 
And  far  re-echo  thunders  loud — 

And  one  bright  beam  slants  from  on  high. 

Dark  shadows  stretch  from  'neath  each  tree, 
Stretch  in  the  light  'mid  storm  and  rain  ; 
My  heart  is  filled  with  joy  and  pain — 

In  shade  and  shine  his  life  will  be. 

The  mother  lies  in  languid  joy. 

The  shadows  change  for  rays  of  light, 
The  sun's  grand  fire  will  set  in  night, 

'Mid  shade  and  shine  God  guide  our  boy. 


54         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


The  mother  lies  so  calm  and  weak, 

She  coils  him  closer  to  lier  side  ; 

Her  looks  are  bright  with  mother's  pride  : 
My  heart  o'erflows  :   I  cannot  speak. 

But  I  must  not  burden  these  pages  with  more  of  these 
heart  effusions.  I  set  down  these  as  they  serve  as  tests  of 
the  atmosphere  of  our  little  home.  They  are  measures, 
also,  of  what  was  lost  when  the  staypole  of  my  tent  fell 
down. 

The  early  autumn  had  been  happily  reminiscent  of  our 
early  joys  :  the  later  autumn  brought  the  shadows  creeping 
slowly — so  slowly  as  to  be  scarcely  noticed — over  our  roof. 

The  Dhammapada  Sutta  tells  us  that  out  of  love  sorrow 
is  born.  The  Buddhist  stoic  would  stifle  love  to  avoid 
sorrow.  None  who  have  loved  will  question  the  truth  that 
he  who  loves  must  meet  sorrow  ;  but  whoever  knows  love 
will  know  that  it  is  worth  all  the  sorrow.  It  is  better  even 
to  have  loved,  and  to  know  that  most  desolating  sorrow  of 
losing  the  loved  one,  than  never  to  have  loved  at  all.  We, 
in  our  well-filled  nest,  had  given  hostages  to  fortune  ;  and 
when  illness  came  our  hearts  knew  a  multiplied  anxiety. 

Of  this  we  had  experience  when  scarlet  fever  visited  us, 
and  every  one  of  our  six  children  were  attacked  by  it.  We 
were  soon  left  to  fight  the  foe  with  very  slender  forces. 
One  of  the  servants  failed  us ;  neighbours  feared  to  visit  us. 
One  good  lady  declared  that  I  ought  not  to  continue  my 
duties  in  church.  I  remember  that  she  held  aloof,  and 
liked  to  have  the  breadth  of  the  street  between  us  ;  across 
it  she  shouted  her  inquiries  about  the  children.  The  fever 
continued.    The  service  at  our  disposal  was  scant.  The 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW  55 


heaviest  burden  fell  on  the  little  mother.  In  my  clumsy, 
man-like  way  I  tried  to  help.  I  remember  that  I  lit  the 
fires,  cleaned  the  grates,  and  laid  the  breakfast.  I  could, 
at  any  rate,  be  a  hewer  of  wood  and  a  drawer  of  water  for 
the  sick  household. 

The  evil  increased.  The  doctor  became  anxious  about 
our  eldest  child  ;  the  fever  in  his  case  took  on  a  malignant 
aspect.  A  second  doctor  was  called  in.  The  child's  throat 
was  bad  ;  it  was  growing  dangerously  insensitive.  In  vain 
it  was  cauterized  :  it  showed  no  response.  How  well  I 
remember  the  moment  when  this  peril  threatened.  I  can 
see  the  little  figure  of  my  wife  standing  in  the  room  ;  the 
light  of  the  westering  sun  fell  upon  her  face  :  agony  was 
written  there.  I  knew  how  her  heart  was  bound  up  in  the 
life  of  our  firstborn. 

Meanwhile  severer  measures  were  tried  upon  the  little 
patient.  The  cauterizing-stick  was  applied  to  the  throat  : 
it  was  thrust  down  deep.  Suddenly  the  child  rose  up  in 
wrath,  and  seemed  to  spit  out  the  offending  intruder. 
"  Thank  God  !  "  said  the  doctors.  The  response  of  whole- 
some painfulness  had  been  secured.  From  that  time  forward 
the  shadows  began  to  recede  from  the  home.  For  long  we 
had  pale-faced  children  in  the  house,  dark  patches  under 
their  eyes  ;  little  fingers  were  with  difficulty  kept  from 
picking  at  their  faces.  After  a  while,  thanks  to  their  grand- 
father's kindness,  they  were  all  carried  off  to  Brighton  ; 
there,  with  the  sea  facing  them,  and  the  fresh  parade,  and 
sands  for  walk  and  play,  the  roses  came  back  and  the  days 
of  pain  and  peril  were  past. 

Here  I  should  like  to  pause  and  indulge  in  a  digression. 


56 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


People  have  often  speculated  about  men's  callings,  and 
wondered  which  profession  or  business  affords  the  greater 
chance  of  heaven,  or  elsewhere.  I  have  no  doubt  that  every 
calling  has  its  dangers ;  I  have  still  less  doubt  that  plumbers 
have,  of  all  trades,  the  least  chance  of  heaven.  Their  trade 
offers  them  such  an  easy  path  for  fraud,  and  here,  if  any- 
where, the  tender  mercies  of  the  wicked  are  cruel.  Their 
wickednesses  are  hidden,  if  not  in  the  depths  of  their  heart, 
yet  in  the  lower  places  of  our  homes.  It  is  a  marvel  to  me 
that  people  have  so  long  borne  the  bloodguiltiness  of  this 
business.  We  try  the  signalman  who,  fatigued  by  long 
hours  of  work,  in  a  moment  of  forgetfulness,  sends  a  train 
along  the  wrong  line.  If  an  accident  is  followed  by  a  death, 
we  hold  him  guilty  of  manslaughter.  But  the  plumber, 
who  in  cold  blood  leaves  out  a  section  of  drain-pipe,  or 
instead  of  making  a  joint  good  fills  it  with  paper,  is  liable 
to  no  penalty,  though  death  glides  into  the  house  on  the 
poisonous  wings  which  he  has  set  free.  This  is  no  imaginary 
picture.  I  saw  the  pretty  home  of  the  youTig  husband  and 
wife  ;  I  saw  it  in  its  flowering  hour,  when  the  first  babe  lay 
in  its  mother's  arms  ;  and  at  that  supreme  moment  of  hap- 
piness the  evil  work  of  the  criminally  careless,  or  more 
criminally  covetous  plumber,  let  death  loose,  and  sent  the 
young  mother  to  the  grave.  This  is  not  an  irrelevant 
digression.  The  illness  which  laid  my  sick  children  low 
was  traced  to  its  source.  The  drain  pipe  to  carry  off  the 
poisonous  gas  was  brought  through  the  cistern,  and  its 
summit  was  just  above  the  surface  of  the  water  which  was 
used  for  drinking  and  household  purposes.  I  sent  for  the 
builder,  who  was  also  the  owner  of  the  house  ;  I  told  him 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW 


what  we  had  discovered.  He  blandly  assured  me  that  it 
was  quite  safe.  I  replied  that  I  would  not  pit  my  judg- 
ment against  his,  but  that  I  would  refer  the  question  to  the 
sanitary  inspector.  If  the  sanitary  inspector  approved  the 
arrangement  of  drain  pipe  and  cistern  I  would  not  ask  for 
any  change.  There  was  no  need  to  say  more.  The  reply 
came  without  hesitation.  An  immediate  change  should  be 
made.  The  ways  of  some  men  are  wonderful,  and  the 
perils  to  which  the  unwary  are  exposed  by  the  unscrupulous 
are  many.  Had  the  Apostle  lived  in  modern  days  he  would 
not  have  complained  of  the  coppersmith,  but  of  another 
trade.  In  our  own  day  Mr.  G.  R,  Sims  has  sung  a  ballad 
of  the  plumber. 

"  The  plumber  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold. 
With  his  pockets  all  bulging  with  silver  and  gold. 
For  twenty-three  hours  he  courted  the  cook, 
And  twenty-four  shillings  he  charged  in  his  book." 

Now  may  the  good  Lord  have  mercy  on  plumbers,  for  they 
sadly  need  it  !    My  digression  is  ended. 

Twelve  years  have  gone.  Our  wedding  day  is  drawing 
near.  I  have  one  or  two  engagements  in  the  Midlands.  I 
have  promised  to  preach  at  the  parish  church  of  Oundle, 
and  the  day  following  at  Nottingham.  These  duties  ofFer 
the  opportunity  of  a  little  renewed  honeymoon.  We  start 
on  September  27.  I  have  provided  myself  with  a  little 
wedding-day  gift — a  small  work-case,  suspended  by  two 
dainty  leather  straps.  I  have  seen  it  in  a  shop  in  St.  Paul's 
Churchyard  ;  it  has  taken  my  fancy  ;  it  is  dainty  and  prac- 
tical. I  secrete  it  in  my  luggage.  We  travel  together,  my 
dear  little  wife  and  I.    Though  I  am  going  on  work,  it  is 


58         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


to  us  a  holiday  treat.  Seldom,  very  seldom,  had  we  the 
opportunity  of  such  a  trip  for  a  day  or  two  together.  We 
start,  then,  with  a  happy  sense  of  freedom  and  with  pleasant 
memories. 

Our  hosts  at  Oundle  (the  vicar  and  his  wife)  are  most 
kind.  I  fulfil  my  promise  ;  and  1  enjoy  the  work  of 
preaching  in  the  fine  and  spacious  and  well-filled  church. 
We  stay  at  the  vicarage  ;  and  as  the  glad  anniversary 
morning  awakes  I  thrust  my  hand  under  the  pillow,  and  as 
my  dear  little  wife  wakens  I  give  her  my  love-token.  The 
day  is  one  of  quiet  gladness  to  us.  We  took  the  train  to 
Peterborough,  and  we  visited  the  cathedral.  It  was  in  a 
sense  my  first  cathedral  ;  for  though  I  had  visited  Chester 
and  Bangor,  Dublin  and  London  and  elsewhere,  Peter- 
borough was  the  first  cathedral  which  awoke  in  me  the 
sense  of  the  power  of  architecture  as  an  appeal  to  the 
imagination.  The  view  of  its  west  front  as  it  broke  upon 
my  sight  in  i860  gave  me  one  of  those  unforgettable 
experiences  from  which  we  can  date  further  progress  ;  and 
now,  sixteen  years  later,  it  was  to  be  a  joy  to  both  of  us, 
and  to  be  for  ever  associated  in  my  memory  with  our  last 
holiday  together  on  that  glad  wedding  anniversary.  The 
day  closed  with  our  visit  to  Nottingham.  The  following 
day  we  returned  home  with  a  happy  sense  of  a  renewed  love 
experience  in  our  hearts. 

Shall  1  say  that  the  memory  of  that  little  trip  brings  a 
bitter  pang 

"  Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria," — Inf.,  v.  1 2 1-3. 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW  59 

There  is  truth  in  Dante's  thought  ;  but  the  memory  of 
that  glad  little  holiday  together  brings  with  the  sadness  a 
sense  of  peace.  The  last  wedding  day  we  spent  together  : 
it  was  a  day  of  unbroken  joy  and  mutual  trust,  a  sealing  of 
our  love. 

The  sad  and  solitary  days  were  fast  drawing  near,  though 
we  knew  it  not.  Here  my  narrative  must  break  for  a 
moment,  for  public  movements  must  be  followed  if  private 
sorrows  are  to  be  fully  understood.  These  were  days  in 
which  public  attention  was  directed  to  the  home  difficulties 
of  the  poor.  Society  began  to  awake  to  needs  of  the  less 
fortunate.  The  food  of  the  poor  was  unsatisfactory  ;  ex- 
travagance in  cooking  added  to^the  troubles  of  many  homes. 
Ignorance  was  the  cause  of  needless  miseries.  Let  the  girls 
in  the  schools  be  taught  to  cook,  and  with  knowledge 
economy  will  come.  The  miseries  which  result  from  the 
extravagant  methods  of  ignorance  will  be  mitigated.  Thus 
a  campaign  of  enlightenment  was  set  on  foot.  To  help 
this  campaign  example  was  better  than  precept,  and  accord- 
ingly my  dear  little  wife  threw  herself  ardently  into  the 
v/ork,  and  resolved  to  obtain  from  the  Kensington  School 
of  Cookery  a  certificate  of  qualification.  Armed  with  this 
she  would  be  fitted  to  give  lessons  in  the  school  and  parish. 

What  could  we  do — or  what  could  I  do,  except  give 
my  sympathy  to  this  laudable  scheme  ?  Alas  !  it  was  des- 
tined to  prove,  as  it  may  be  read,  either  a  fatal  success  or  a 
splendid  failure.  The  certificates  were  won.  They  were  hardly 
won.  It  meant  that  in  addition  to  the  normal  household 
and  parochial  duties  there  was  the  long  daily  journey  to 
South  Kensington — in  those  days  a  matter  of  not  much 


6o         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


less  than  an  hour — followed  by  the  arduous  practise 
work,  and  accompanied  by  the  need  of  continuous  patient 
study. 

Before  me  as  I  write  there  are  fbur  certificates  granted 
by  the  National  Training  School  for  Cookery. 

The  first  is  a  certificate  for  preliminary  practice  in  cleaning, 
which  declares  that  Mrs.  Boyd  Carpenter,  having  attended 
the  course,  obtained  400  marks  out  of  a  possible  400 — full 
marks,  in  fact.  The  second — the  date  of  this  is  November 
18,  1875.  Then  follow  two  certificates  obtained  a  fortnight 
later,  one  testifying  that  Mrs.  Boyd  Carpenter  had  obtained 
874  marks  out  of  a  total  of  1000  in  an  examination  by 
paper,  and  was  entitled  to  a  certificate  of  knowledge  ;  the 
other  testifying  that  she  had  passed  an  examination  in 
Artizan  Cookery,  intended  for  families  spending  from  fs. 
to  20s.  in  the  purchase  of  food.  In  this  examination  she 
had  obtained  640  marks  out  of  a  total  of  800.  In  the 
examination  for  knowledge  she  was  placed  fourth  in  the 
First  Grade.  Lastly,  there  is  the  diploma  of  an  associate. 
This  is  dated  May  20,  1876.  The  date  is  the  anniversary 
of  our  engagement  twelve  years  before. 

This  record  of  examinations  leading  up  to  the  diploma 
extends  over  six  months — six  months  of  journeys,  unwonted 
studies,  fatiguing  kitchen  work,  examinations,  during  which 
the  demands  of  home  duties  continued  ;  and  her  poor  dear 
heart  was  saddened  and  her  life  shadowed  by  the  death  of 
her  father,  to  whom  she  was  devotedly  attached. 

The  diploma  was  a  victory,  but  a  victory  won  at  a  fatal 
cost — ^work,  anxiety,  sorrow,  bodily  fatigue  and  mental 
anxiety  :   these  were  her  portion  ;  and  yet  the  enterprise 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW  6i 


for  the  good  of  the  people  of  the  parish  was  successfully 
carried  out. 

The  price,  however,  had  to  be  paid  :  a  sensible  diminu- 
tion of  energy  followed.  Often  I  watched  her  as  she  sat — 
memory  of  her  father  evidently  occupying  her  mind — and  I 
saw  in  her  face  what  I  had  never  seen  before.  I  did  not 
understand  it  then  ;  but  it  was  the  beginning  of  the  weak- 
ness which  at  length  undermined  her  strength.  These, 
however,  were  only  occasional  relapses  into  meditative 
silence.  When  we  took  our  little  renewed  honeymoon 
trip  in  September  she  brightened  up,  and  there  seemed  to 
be  no  cloud  over  the  dear  home  nest. 

November,  however,  told  another  story.  The  walk  up 
from  church  tried  her  :  her  breathlessness  on  reaching 
home  was  painful,  and  elicited  sympathetic  words  from  our 
guests.  In  December  she  was  confined  to  the  house  and 
to  bed.  The  doctors  hinted  at  heart  weakness.  January  9th 
was  her  birthday  ;  we  tried  to  make  a  little  festival  of  it 
in  her  room.  I  brought  her  a  small  stand  for  photographs, 
and  I  filled  it  with  portraits  of  those  she  loved  best.  She 
was  pleased,  greatly  pleased  ;  but  the  exertion  of  her 
pleasure  was  too  much  for  her,  and  the  next  day  showed 
diminished  strength.  We  were  only  to  have  her  for  a 
week  more.  I  did  not  even  then,  however,  realize  that  she 
was  to  leave  us — up  to  the  last  I  was  blind  to  what  was 
coming.  Only  on  the  morning  of  the  fatal  day  did  I  realize 
the  danger,  and  then  I  could  only  cry  to  God. 

For  the  rest  I  must  rely  upon  the  little  chronicle  I 
wrote  at  the  time.  Let  those  to  whom  such  simple  home 
chronicles  have  no  meaning,  or  little  interest,  leave  the 


62         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


remaining  portion  of  this  chapter  unread.  Here  only 
sympathy  can  understand.  Indeed,  I  should  not  write 
further,  but  that  there  are  some  still  alive  who  knew  her, 
loved  her  and  will  understand. 

Here,  then,  are  a  few  passages  out  of  the  sacred  chronicle 
of  those  days  of  sorrow. 

"We  said  our  little  Psalm — the  23rd  Psalm — over  to- 
gether. We  had  read  it  together  on  our  wedding  night. 
She  talked  lovingly  of  all  :  she  wished  the  children  to  have 
a  keepsake  :  she  mentioned  little  pieces  of  jewelry  which 
she  wished  to  go  to  one  or  another.  She  turned  to  one 
friend  and  said,  '  I  can  never  repay  you  for  all  you  have 
done,  dear.' 

"  I  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  have  the  Holy  Com- 
munion. '  Yes,'  she  said,  '  and  your  mother.  But  let  me 
have  ten  minutes'  peace.'  We  kept  still  for  ten  minutes, 
while  she  thought  and  prayed  quietly.  We  then  had  our 
last  remembrance  of  the  dear  Christ's  command  together. 
I  used  her  own  little  well-worn  prayer  book  :  it  is  now  in 
my  bureau  drawer  with  other  sweet,  sad  relics  of  the  dear 
past.  The  poor  dear  child  joined  in  the  responses  with 
hard,  struggling  breath.  I  can  recall  how  her  panting  voice 
spoke  the  words  of  the  confession.  '  The  remembrance  of 
them  is  grievous  unto  us  :  the  burden  is  intolerable.'  When 
I  had  given  the  blessing  she  said,  'Now,  I  will  sleep.' 
I  left  her  for  a  while.  When  I  returned  I  found  that  her 
poor  little  heart  was  heavy  with  the  thought  of  sin.  '  I  am 
not  fit  to  go  to  that  pure  land,'  she  said.  I  said,  '  My 
darling,  arc  you  not  forgetting  the  Saviour   '   *  Oh  no  !  it's 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW  63 


not  that,'  she  said,  '  but  I  have  not  lived  the  life  I  ought  for 
Him.'  My  mother  then  came  into  the  room,  and  to  her 
she  said,  *  I  am  not  fit  to  go  :  I  have  not  been  like  you, 
working  for  Him.'  My  mother  said,  *  It  is  not  what  we 
have  done  :  He  is  the  Saviour.'  Shortly  afterwards,  my 
mother  repeated  the  hymn,  '  I  heard  the  voice  of  Jesus 
say.'  When  the  last  line — 'He  has  made  me  glad' — was 
reached,  my  little  one  said,  '  So  glad,  yes.  He  has  made 
me  glad.' 

"  Once  she  said,  when  I  laid  my  hand  on  hers  and  her 
eye  fell  upon  her  wedding  ring  :  *  Only  twelve  years  ! 
I  should  like  to  stay  longer  and  work  with  you,  darling. 
That's  not  wrong,  is  it '  I  stayed  with  her,  and  after  a 
while  she  said,  with  the  peculiar  loving  and  tender  tone 
which  she  always  used  in  speaking  of  him  to  me,  *  I  shall 
see  your  father,'  and  then,  after  a  little  while,  she  added, 
'  and  my  father.'  '  Yes,  darling,'  I  said,  '  and  our  Father,* 
Her  little  hand  closed  on  mine  as  she  repeated,  '  Yes,  and 
our  Father.' 

"  Two  of  the  children,  Jessie  and  Minnie,  were  brought 
into  the  room.  She  looked  at  them  :  her  heart  was  full 
of  loving  wishes  for  them.  To  Jessie  she  said  *  Take  care 
of  father.'  One  thing  she  yearned  for  on  their  behalf;  so 
she  said  to  Minnie,  '  Be  a  good  soldier  of  Jesus  Christ.' 
The  children  were  led  away.  The  little  invalid  grew  rest- 
less :  she  seemed  to  get  no  repose  :  no  posture  brought 
relief  to  the  wearied  frame.  Now  and  again  the  thought 
of  her  unworthiness  came  back  upon  her  :  but  at  last,  as 
though  it  were  the  close  of  a  spiritual  conflict,  she  said, 
'  I  have  left  it  all  with  Jesus.'    This  was,  as  it  were,  the 


64         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


last  message  of  her  spirit  to  us  :  it  summed  up  her  faith 
and  her  hope. 

"  There  was  only  one  scene  more — the  last. 

"  I  came  upstairs  :  a  friend  and  the  nurse  were  in  the 
room  :  soon  after  my  mother  joined  us.  I  sat  upon  the 
bed,  and  took  her  hand  in  mine  :  it  was  cold,  and  the  chill 
of  it  startled  me.  She  saw  that  I  was  troubled  about  it  : 
she  drew  her  hand  away  and  warmed  or  tried  to  warm  it 
below  the  bedclothes,  and  then  put  it  back  in  my  hand. 
She  was  quite  quiet,  she  nestled  down  upon  the  pillow. 
The  door  of  the  room  opened,  and  the  doctor  stole  in. 
Some  one  said  to  her  :  'The  doctor  is  here,  dear.'  But  the 
doctor  said, '  Let  her  alone  '  ;  and  then  to  her,  '  Just  as  you 
are,  Mrs.  Carpenter.' 

"  Then  the  nurse  spoke  a  warning  :  '  There  is  a  change.' 
The  little  head  pressed  gently  further  down  on  the  pillow. 
The  breath  came  with  a  deep,  hard-drawn  sound  :  there  was 
a  little  sigh  :  the  eyes  closed.  All  was  over.  My  darling 
had  gone. 

"  The  same  moment  my  mother's  arms  were  round  me  ; 
but  I  drew  away  from  them  and  drew  myself  near  to  the 
silent  face  and  form  :  a  sort  of  fierce  jealousy  of  possession, 
I  suppose,  was  mine  :  I  was  claiming  her  against  death  and 
against  all. 

"It  was  January  17,  1877."    So  far  my  little  chronicle. 

A  strange  awe  filled  me  during  the  next  few  days  :  I 
longed  to  be  near  her,  yet  I  felt  a  worshipful  reverence  which 
made  me  shrink  from  going  in  alone.  Once  I  remember, 
when  a  dear  friend  came  to  see  me,  I  found  myself  saying, 


HARRIET  CHARLOTTE   BOYD  CARPENTER 
[  To  face 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW  65 


"  Will  you  go  in  with  me  ?  I  want  to  go  in,  but  not  now 
alone."  She  went  in  with  me  :  a  few  sacred  moments  we 
stood  in  the  quiet  room  and  looked  down  on  the  dear  face, 
which  seemed  so  childlike  in  its  coffin.  Sometimes  I  found 
courage  to  go  in  alone. 

A  week  after  the  day  of  loss  we  bore  her  worn-out 
body  to  the  grave.  The  night  before  the  funeral  I  went 
into  the  room,  and  by  the  coffin  side  I  read  again  our  little 
psalm.  I  thought  of  the  first  time  I  had  read  it  to  her,  and 
of  the  last.  I  knelt  down  and  prayed  for  the  children — 
the  children  for  whose  sake  she  had  cherished  life.  I 
kissed  the  coffin  and  bade  her  "  Good  night."  The  funeral 
day  was  a  bright  day  with  a  clear  sky  :  the  promise  of 
spring  in  winter  :  a  Resurrection  day,  as  a  friend  said  to 
me.  I  was,  however,  like  a  man  in  a  dream.  I  went 
through  all  the  sad  ceremonial  as  a  man  who  dreams  an 
ill  dream,  which  he  secretly  hopes  is  untrue.  In  the  carriage 
my  youngest  daughter,  Annie,  sat  on  my  knee,  and  1  held 
her  by  the  hand  when  we  reached  the  grave  side  ;  but  first 
the  church  was  to  be  visited,  for  there  the  early  part  of  the 
service  was  held.  Eight  girls — former  confirmation  candi- 
dates of  mine,  who  used  to  meet  quarterly  for  prayer  and 
reading  under  my  wife's  presidency,  followed  the  clergy 
who  were  to  officiate.  The  introductory  sentences  were 
read  as  we  entered  the  church.  Then,  as  soon  as  the 
great  congregation  had  settled  into  their  places,  the  hymn 
which  my  mother  had  repeated  by  my  wife's  bedside  was 
sung.  The  simple  and  familiar  words  took  on  new  mean- 
ings. What  memories  were  wakened  and  what  hopes, 
when  the  words,  "  He  has  made  me  glad "  were  sung  ! 

F 


66         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


What  a  rich  significance  rose  to  my  mind  as  I  heard  the 
line,  "  Now  I  Hve  in  Him  !  "  And  what  a  vista  of  lonely 
days  opened  before  my  thoughts  as  the  people  sang,  "  Till 
travelling  days  are  done  !  "  Mr.  Stewart,  my  old  vicar — a 
true  and  constant  friend — was  with  us  that  day  and  read  the 
psalm.  Mr.  Abbott,  a  neighbouring  clergyman,  who  had 
travelled  with  us  in  Normandy,  read  the  lesson.  Then 
"  Rock  of  Ages  "  was  sung,  and  we  left  the  church,  with 
its  crowd  of  black-clad  and  kindly  people,  and  we  drove 
slowly  to  Highgate  Cemetery. 

At  Highgate  we  found  that  throngs  of  people  had 
followed  us,  and  had  gathered  around  the  open  grave. 
Mr.  Stewart  read  the  committal  prayer.    Canon  Harvey  of 
Hornsey— of  whom  I  wrote  in  an  earlier  work — followed, 
and  his  voice  rang  out  loud  and  strong,  telling  of  the 
sure  and  certain  hope  of  the  resurrection  to  eternal  life. 
Then    "  Abide  with    me "    was    sung    by  the  children, 
under  the   schoolmaster's   guidance  ;  the  crowd  on  the 
higher  ground  caught  up  the  familiar  words,  and  sang  of 
the  changeless  One  whose  presence  we  craved  in  this  ever- 
changing  scene.    1  gave  the  blessing.    Then  we  cast  into 
the  grave  our  last  tribute  of  flowers.    I  plucked  a  little 
twig  from  the  old  yew  which  overhung  the  spot. 
We  came  home.    A  lonesome  home  it  was. 
I  met  a  man  the  other  day  :  he  had  lost  an  arm  in  the 
war.    I  asked  him  if  he  felt  pain  :  "  None,"  he  said,  "  but 
T  feel  as  though  the  arm  and  hand  were  still  there.  It 
is  the  obstinacy  of  habit,  I  suppose."    A  like  obstinacy  of 
habit  is  with  the  bereaved,  and  it  brings  again  and  again 
the  stab  of  pain.    We  receive  a  kind  letter  :  the  loving 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW  67 


sympathy  of  it  stirs  the  heart.  The  thought  leaps  up, 
"  I  will  tell  my  dear  one  this  :  how  pleased  she  will  be  " — 
and  then  slow-moving  memory  reminds  one  that  the  dear 
one  is  out  of  reach.  It  was  so  with  me  :  the  obstinacy 
of  habit  was  too  much  for  the  benumbed  brain.  In  that 
sad  week  I  went  almost  bounding  up  the  stairs  :  I  turned 
the  handle  of  the  room  door  as  I  had  done  so  often  before 
with  a  hungry  anticipation  of  welcome  :  I  thrust  the  door 
open.  Her  coffin  was  there  :  it  was  a  few  days  before 
they  took  her  away.  Tears  would  have  been  welcome  to 
me  then.  Later  I  heard  whispers.  Kind  friends  repeated 
to  me  the  gossip  of  the  parish  :  "  I  was  so  calm " — 
"  I  was  showing  such  Christian  fortitude."  Oh,  poor  heart 
of  mine,  poor  sorrow-benumbed  brain  that  could  only 
monotonously  go  over  scenes,  words,  phrases  of  the  past. 
My  calmness  and  my  fortitude  were  little  worth — I  would 
fain  have  exchanged  them  for  tears. 

A  month  later,  I  wrote :  "  I  begin  to  awake,  and  I  find 
that  among  the  many  voices  that  have  cried  to  me  of 
sympathy,  there  is  One  who  has  stood  beside  me  :  silent 
but  pitying,  and  waiting  in  love  till  the  wild  fit  of  grief 
and  the  paralysis  of  astonishment  have  passed  away,  to 
take  me  by  the  hand  and  to  lead  me  into  His  own  chamber, 
and  teach  me  the  meaning  of  this  mighty  sorrow." 

It  was  no  small  responsibility  to  be  left  with  eight 
children — ranging  from  eleven  to  three  years  of  age  ;  but 
this  was  my  lot.  In  January  1877  my  eldest  boy,  Henry, 
was  eleven,  and  my  youngest  child,  Archie,  was  still  under 
four.  Between  these  two  there  were  six  others,  two  boys 
and  four  girls.    I  had  an  octave  of  children. 


68         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


When  a  great  and  devastating  sorrow  has  fallen,  one 
of  the  hardest  matters  to  deal  with  is  the  contradiction 
between  sentiment  and  duty.  Sentiment  seeks  seclusion  : 
it  asks  the  indulgence  of  grief.  "  Let  me  alone,"  it  cries 
to  the  irrepressible  and  exacting  tasks  of  life ;  "  let  me  alone 
that  I  may  bewail  myself  a  little."  But  duty  points  with 
inexorable  finger  to  the  recurring  obligations  of  life  ;  and 
duty  says,  "  You  cannot  afford  the  luxuries  of  sorrow. 
The  very  tasks  of  life  are  hard  but  wholesome  messengers 
of  self-control.  Such  messengers  came  to  me  in  plenty. 
The  parish  work  had  to  go  on  :  the  sermons  had  to  be 
prepared  :  there  were  still  children  in  the  schools,  and 
needy  and  sick  people  in  the  houses.  Duty  called,  and 
sentiment  must  take  a  back  seat.  And  yet,  if  I  recollect 
aright,  it  was  not  the  severe  face  of  parochial  duty  which 
exerted  the  greatest  power  over  my  mind  and  conduct  at 
that  time.  There  were  other  influences  which  came  more 
subtly  and  more  frequently  upon  me.  There  were  the 
wistful  faces  of  the  eight  children  !  These  spoke  more 
often  and  more  feelingly  than  outside  tasks,  and  made  an 
appeal  to  me  against  all  indulgence  of  sentiment. 

After  walking  about  the  parish  and  fulfilling  its 
task,  I  would  thread  my  way  from  the  crowded  Holloway 
Road,  past  the  few  vacant  fields,  and  climb  the  short  and 
desolate  ascent  which  led  to  Highbury  Hill  :  I  would 
enter  my  own  front  door :  it  was  the  evening  hour  when 
the  children  were  neither  tied  by  task  nor  yet  committed 
to  the  long  process  of  getting  to  bed.  Was  it  not  my 
duty  to  meet  their  unspoken  wishes  Must  my  sorrow 
fall  like  a  cloud  upon  their  sky  .''    It  was  natural  for  these 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW  69 


young  things  to  be  gay.  High  spirits,  exuberant  animal 
life,  the  restlessness  of  young  activities,  these  belonged  to 
them,  Avaunt,  dark  thoughts  !  yes,  even  legitimate  griefs. 
Cast  no  shadows  over  young  hearts.  Let  laughter  come 
and  movement !  Invent  some  game,  some  pageant :  let 
us  play  and  think  that  we  forget. 

So  I  steeled  my  heart  against  myself,  and  resolved  that 
young  life  should  claim  its  own.  I  knew  that  in  the  long  run 
those  dear  children  would  understand  the  conflict  of  love,  and 
perhaps  understand  that  the  heart  does  not  love  the  less  because 
it  can  place  the  duty  of  the  present  before  the  sorrows  of  the 
past,  and  the  care  of  the  living  higher  than  regret  for  the  dead. 

Yet  how  hard  it  was  to  bury  one's  grief,  and  to  simulate 
a  joyousness  of  abandon  in  children's  games,  and  make  the 
glad  nursery  rioting  appear  a  genuine  and  unclouded  time. 
Some  of  the  difficulty  of  this  hard  task  found  expression 
in  these  lines.  That  child-joy  was  hard  to  bear,  and  harder 
still  it  was  to  pretend  to  share  it,  and  so  when  the  little 
rioters  had  gone  to  bed,  and  their  merry  voices  had  been 
hushed  in  slumber,  this  is  what  my  heart  said — 

O,  merry  little  voices ! 

Ye  children  of  the  dead  ; 
Your  very  laughter  makes  me  sad, 

Since  cold  her  hand  who  led 
Your  doubtful  feet  each  day  along 

The  threshold  paths  of  life  ; 
And  silent  are  the  lips  of  her — 

Your  mother  and  my  wife. 

O,  merry  little  voices ! 

Your  laughter  makes  me  sad, 
For  I  am  lone  and  cannot  give 
The  lessons  that  you  had  ; — 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


The  lessons  that  her  loving  lips 

Each  Sabbath  day  have  taught  you  ; 

The  thousand  comforts  and  the  joys 

Her  loving  hands  have  brought  you. 

O,  merry  little  voices  ! 

I  scarce  have  heart  to  play, 
Or  join  in  romp  and  merriment 

In  the  twilight  of  the  day  ; 
For  I  think  of  her  who  came  and  sat, 

Plying  needle,  as  I  read, 
Or  looking  on  with  gladness  at 

The  mirth  hour  ere  your  bed. 

O,  my  merry  little  children  ! 

You  have  kissed  her  your  good  night. 
And  she  sleeps  beneath  the  yew-tree, 

And  she  waits  the  morning  light. 
We  shall  play  from  room  to  room, 

But  her  eyes  will  look  no  more 
On  our  gambols  and  our  frolic. 

With  the  smile  of  heretofore. 

O,  merry  little  children  ! 

A  moment  hush  your  play. 
And  let  us  think  a  little  now 

Of  her  who  is  away. 
Be  silent,  lest  we  rouse  her,  dears. 

She  is  but  gone  to  rest. 
Till  the  angels  shall  awake  her 

In  the  morning  of  the  blest. 

O,  happy  little  children  ! 

If  there  we  see  her  face. 
Familiar  as  in  olden  days, 

But  glorified  by  grace  ; 
Her  eyes  irradiant  with  the  light 

Which  cometh  from  our  Christ, 
And  looking  on  us  with  the  love 

Of  one  whom  God  hath  kissed. 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW  71 


The  children's  hour  !    It  always  came  with  its  demand 
upon  thought,  or  inventive  energy.    It  was  specially  urgent 
in  its  demands  when  the  holidays  came,  and  days  were  long 
and  the  opportunities  of  excursion  or  amusement  were 
limited  ;  but  in  providing  amusement  in  the  children's 
hour,  I  often  had  the  vigorous  and  ungrudging  help  of  my 
brother — the  children's  "  Uncle   Archie,"    Then  we  could 
devise  a  night's  entertainment  or  a  day's  excursion  with  the 
certainty  of  much  out-of-door  fun  or  indoor  merriment. 
Sometimes,  at  the  seaside,  we  would  take  excursions  over 
the  downs,  and  give  a  "fearful  joy  "-to  the  children  by 
setting   a  group   of   them  upon    a    rug   and  dragging 
them   down   some  smooth   slope    to  the    level  ground 
beneath — the  experiment  was  full  of  thrilling  emotion  to 
the  children,  and  ultimate  permanent  damage  to  the  rug  ; 
but  it  saved  the  summer  afternoon  from  monotony,  pro- 
voked wholesome  laughter,  and   prepared   the    way  for 
healthful  sleep.    When  the  days  shortened  and  the  nights 
demanded  some  amusement,  again  my  brother's  whole- 
hearted love  of  children  and  their  games  came  to  my  aid. 
We  then  devised  little  farces,  or  commonplace  domestic 
dramas,  in  which  sometimes  my  brother  and  I  were  the 
only  actors.    We  played  the  fool,  and  at  times  played  it 
exceedingly  well.    What  matter  did  it  make,  if  we  could 
bring  happy  laughter  to  the  little  ones  ? 

Once,  I  recollect,  our  little  farce  turned  on  the  de- 
linquencies of  an  erratic  husband,  who  stayed  out  late — 
much  later  than  his  solemn-visaged  wife  approved.  In-order 
to  emphasize  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  we  sought  something 
large  and  impressive  to  serve  as  the  face  of  an  accusing 


72         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


clock  ;  we  found  it  in  a  great  bedroom  bath,  whose  white 
inner  surface  became  the  dial  of  the  clock.  Huge  figures 
were  marked  out  upon  it,  and  the  remorseless  hands  indi- 
cated that  the  midnight  hour  had  passed.  The  scene  when 
the  belated  man  returned  was  the  closing  scene  of  the 
domestic  drama,  and  a  glorious  scene  of  recrimination  and 
riot  and  wanton  destruction  it  was.  Of  course,  we  had 
other  and  more  serious  little  plays,  but  this  remains  in  my 
memory  because  of  the  unforgettable,  monstrous,  and 
menacing  clock  face,  which  played  such  a  leading  part  till 
it  fell  with  loud  crash  and  prolonged  vibrant  murmurs  in 
the  scene  of  final  ruin. 

Later,  when  the  children  were  old  enough  to  take  part 
in  these  evening  amusements,  we  prepared  more  ambitious 
entertainments.  I  remember  one  little  piece  which  was 
played  with  considerable  spirit.  It  was,  I  suppose,  a 
melodrama  ;  it  had  a  couple  of  lovers  divided  by  hard 
circumstances,  and  swearing,  of  course,  eternal  fidelity. 
It  included  an  unscrupulous  old  worldling  and  an  emanci- 
pated woman,  each  of  whom  was  supplied  with  an  appropriate 
song.  I  give  these,  as  they"  serve  to  mark  the  state  of 
public  feeling,  as  we  understood  it,  in  1879 — 

GREGORY  GATHERTIN'S  SONG 
I'm  a  limb  of  the  law,  and  my  name  is  Gathertin, 

And  I  was  christened  Gregory  ; 
And  I'm  here  to  assever  and  prove  and  maintain, 

That  there's  nothing  in  the  world  like  a  law}-er's  fee. 

Some  talk  of  their  drafts  and  cheques  and  bills, 

The  large  returns  of  the  £  s.  d.  ; 
But  commend  me  to  briefs  and  settlements  and  wills, 

For  there's  nothing  in  the  world  like  a  lawyer's  fee. 


MY  HOME  AND  HOME  SORROW 


Some  seek  pleasure  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
And  the  glorious  reputation  of  a  K.C.B. 

But  I'd  be  shot  if  I'd  been  at  Waterloo, 
And  I  very  much  prefer  a  lawyer's  fee. 

I'm  a  limb  of  the  law,  and  now  I  seek 
Your  hand,  which  can  bring  felicity. 

And  I  will  love  my  dear  Paraffin, 

With  the  love  I  bear  to  a  lawyer's  fee. 


THE  WOOING  OF  ROSINA. 

My  name  Rosina  Rawbones  is, 

I  am  a  spinster  free  ; 
I'd  like  to  see  the  living  man 

Who  dared  to  marry  me. 
I  know  their  silly,  ogreish  ways, 

The  stupid,  awkward  gawks  ; 
That  laugh  and  smoke  and  jest  and  joke. 

And  blunder  in  their  talks. 

Oh,  dear  !  the  men  that  I  have  met. 

Such  awful  gabies  are  ; 
I  would  not  be  the  slave  of  one — 

My  freedom's  better  far. 
For  I  go  in  for  woman's  rights. 

High  art,  and  the  intense  ; 
For  Local  Boards  and  Parliaments, 

To  teach  men  common  sense. 

The  first  who  came  to  sue  for  me 

Was  Captain  Bunny  Besom  ; 
He  looked  at  me  distractedly. 

And  said  my  love  would  ease  him. 
I  asked  him  could  he  prove  to  me 

The  way  the  circle's  squared  I 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


He  put  his  eyeglass  in  his  eye, 
And  rudely  at  me  stared. 

Oh,  dear  !  the  men  that  I  have  met, 
Such  awful  gabies  are,  etc. 

Then  came  to  seek  my  hand  in  love. 

An  eminent  M.P.  ; 
He  said  that  he'd  resign  his  seat 

If  he  could  marry  me. 
I  asked  him  if  he  would  support 

A  bill  to  let  us  vote  ? 
He  only  stammered  awkwardly, 

And  gurgled  in  his  throat. 

Oh,  dear  !  the  men  that  I  have  met. 
Such  awful  gabies  are,  etc. 


VILLA  LUCAS  OR  PRANGINS 


There  are  two  classes  of  kindly  disposed  people  in  the 
world  :  there  are  those  whose  kindliness  of  feeling  leads 
them  to  think  of  you  and  your  needs  and  what  will  most 
help  ;  there  are  others  whose  desire  to  be  kindly  leads  them 
to  wish  to  feel  enjoyment  with  you.  There  is  a  certain  joy 
of  companionship  in  the  hearts  of  these  latter,  but  it  is 
tinged  with  a  measure  of  egotism  :  they  wish  to  provide  an 
enjoyment  in  which  they  will  participate.  Their  feeling  is 
very  different  from  that  which  fills  the  heart  of  the  man 
who  sets  himself  aside,  and  has  no  thought  of  any  self- 
gratification,  but  whose  only  wish  is  to  devise  something 
which  will  really  benefit  his  friend. 

In  the  course  of  my  life  I  have  met  with  much  kindness, 
but  I  have  met  with  the  kindness  of  the  profit-sharing 
character  more  frequently  than  the  wholly  unselfish  kind- 
ness. People  like  to  be  kind  in  the  way  that  gratifies 
themselves  ;  they  are  less  prone  to  the  kindliness  which 
thinks  and  acts  in  a  self-detached  way. 

I  had  not  been  long  at  Lancaster  Gate  when  I  met  with 
a  kindness  of  this  rare  and  happy  kind.  There  lived  at  one 
of  the  houses  which  stood  at  what  I  may  call  the  gateway  to 
the  square  in  which  the  church  stood,  a  man  of  remarkable 
ability  and  unspoilt  kindliness  of  nature.  He  had  a  large, 
75 


76         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


round,  rubicund  face — the  rosy  hue  of  health  shone  in  it  ; 
he  had  a  laughing  eye,  and  the  rare  faculty  of  laughing  at 
himself  ;  he  was  rich,  generous  and  thoughtful.  His  readi- 
ness to  help  was  never  of  the  guinea-and-go-away  sort.  If 
he  was  asked  to  help,  he  gave  his  mind  as  well  as  his  money 
to  the  matter. 

When  I  had  been  at  Lancaster  Gate  a  few  months,  and 
the  summer  holiday  was  drawing  near,  this  good  parishioner 
of  mine  made  the  friendly  inquiry  :  "  How  or  where  are 
you  going  to  spend  your  holiday  "  I  said  that  I  had 
no  plans.  He  said  :  "  Go  to  my  villa  on  the  Lake  of 
Geneva  ;  tell  me  how  many  you  will  be,  and  I  will 
arrange."  It  was  a  delightful  prospect,  but  the  reality 
surpassed  my  anticipations.  The  proposal  was  so  kind, 
and  the  way  in  which  it  was  made  was  so  kind,  that  I 
accepted.  I  made  up  a  little  party  ;  it  consisted  of  my 
mother  and  my  mother-in-law,  Mrs.  Peers,  my  brother-in- 
law.  Rev.  W.  H.  Peers,  and  another  friend,  a  lady  whom  I 
might  call  Matilda,  for  she  scattered  flowers  in  my  life  and 
subsequently  became  my  wife. 

We  left  London  and  reached  Paris  ;  there  the  two 
seniors  of  the  party  were  disposed  to  rest,  and  my  brother- 
in-law  Peers  had  plans  of  his  own.  I  took  Matilda  round 
the  chief  show  places  of  Paris,  and  a  long  and  tiring  day  we 
had  ;  but  we  were  young  and  vigorous,  and  we  thought 
little  of  rest  in  those  days,  and,  if  my  memory  serves  me, 
we  contented  ourselves  with  one  night  in  Paris,  and  the 
next  night  we  journeyed  on  to  Geneva.  There  we  changed, 
and  an  hour's  railway  journey  brought  us  to  Nyon.  We 
were  all  eager  to  see  what  sort  of  a  house  was  to  be  ours  for 


VILLA  LUCAS  OR  PRANGINS  77 

the  six  or  seven  weeks  of  our  holiday.  After  a  drive  of 
some  half-hour  or  more,  we  turned  from  the  highroad  into 
the  grounds  of  the  villa.  A  long  drive  past  meadows  and 
under  pleasant  trees  ended  in  a  villa  most  curious  to  behold. 
The  side  it  turned  towards  the  park  was  a  series  of  curves  ; 
the  house  was  brilliantly  white  in  colour.  We  entered,  and 
found  ourselves  in  palatial  quarters.  I  wonder  whether  I 
can  give  any  adequate  picture  of  this  fascinating  villa.  The 
chief  rooms  looked  out  upon  the  lake.  The  centre  of  these 
rooms  was  the  drawing-room,  a  large,  oval-shaped  room, 
tapestried  in  royal  red.  Beyond  it,  to  the  west,  was  the 
library  ;  adjoining  the  library  was  the  Prince's  room,  so 
called,  for  the  villa  belonged,  at  one  time,  to  Prince  Jerome 
Buonaparte.  From  the  broad  terrace  on  the  south  we 
looked  over  the  lake,  and  like  a  silver  shield  the  summit 
of  Mont  Blanc  showed  gloriously  white  among  the  iron- 
grey  mountains  in  the  distance.  The  house  was  in  every 
way  a  joy — ample  rooms,  comfortably,  even  luxuriously 
furnished  ;  a  billiard-room,  in  which  my  brother-in-law  and 
Matilda  and  I  found  solace  in  the  evening.  To  the  west, 
a  tiny  little  harbour,  with  boats  for  excursions  on  the  lake. 
To  row  into  Nyon  became  part  of  our  programme. 

In  the  boathouse  I  found  a  vessel  of  curious  shape  : 
two  long  wooden  shoes,  like  small  canoes,  were  fastened 
together  by  upright  sticks,  crowned  by  a  saddle  ;  a  paddle 
lay  near  at  hand.  It  was  a  vessel  which  I  was  told  was 
called  a  Polinsky.  You  sat  on  the  saddle  with  your  feet  in 
the  canoe-like  shoes,  and  from  the  height  of  the  saddle  you 
plied  the  paddle  and  took  your  way  over  the  water.  The 
movement  was  pleasant,  and  the  sense  of  power  which  was 


78         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


given  you  by  height,  made  progress  easy  ;  the  balancing 
was  not  difficult  in  smooth  water.  It  was  a  novel  ex- 
perience to  impel  oneself  over  the  water  like  a  rider  on 
his  steed. 

We  were  well  cared  for.  Servants  appeared  when  re- 
quired, and  disappeared  in  mysterious  fashion.  None  of 
them  lived  in  the  villa  :  an  underground  passage  connected 
with  a  dependance  enabled  them  to  retire  to  their  own 
separate  quarters. 

By  day  and  by  night,  in  sitting-room  and  bedrooms, 
we  were  reminded  of  the  Napoleonic  glory  which  had 
passed  away  ;  for  the  imperial  monogram  was  on  the  glass 
and  china.  The  catastrophe  of  1870-71  had  wrought 
havoc  ;  and  the  villa,  just  as  it  was,  with  furniture  and 
household  goods,  had  passed  into  strange  hands.  My 
good  friend  at  Lancaster  Gate  had  shared  in  the  pur- 
chase of  the  villa,  and  thus,  ten  or  eleven  years  after  the 
fall  of  the  French  Emperor,  our  quaint  party  were  en- 
joying the  rest  and  refreshment  of  this  choice  Swiss  home 
of  a  Buonaparte. 

1  was  fairly  tired  by  my  London  work,  and  I  was 
content  to  read,  and  ramble,  and  row  upon  the  lake,  and 
explore  the  neighbourhood. 

We  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  bright-faced,  intelligent 
and  thoughtful  Swiss  pastor  :  he  had  charge  of  the  neigh- 
bouring village  :  I  heard  him  preach  to  his  blue-bloused 
village  folk :  his  sermon  showed  a  competent  knowledge  of 
modern  thought  and  problems  ;  he  spoke  with  clearness  and 
appropriateness,  neither  obscurantist  in  ignoring  difficulties 
nor  pedantic  in  parading  them  before  his  village  hearers  : 


VILLA  LUCAS  OR  PRANGINS 


he  was  spiritual  and  constructive  in  his  teaching.  He  was 
good  enough  to  call  upon  me  :  his  great  ambition  was  to 
show  us  his  former  parish  among  the  hills  near  to  the 
Dent  du  Midi. 

In  an  hour  of  amiable  weakness  we  agreed  to  accom- 
pany him.  We  travelled  by  train  to  Montreux,  where  he 
met  us  :  like  a  young  antelope,  he  bounded  up  the  steep 
path  before.  As  he  sprang  upwards  with  easy  and  rapid 
strides,  he  assured  us  with  a  most  ingratiating  tone  of  voice 
that  we  would  walk  "  doucement  "  at  first,  and  afterwards 
increase  the  pace.  The  "  doucement "  was  quite  enough 
for  us  as  he  climbed  gaily  towards  "  Les  Avants."  We 
reached  the  hotel  in  time  for  dinner,  and  there  we  spent 
the  night  ;  but  the  restless  spirit  of  the  Swiss  vicar  grudged 
the  loss  of  the  early  morning  hours  :  he  had  us  up  betimes, 
and  we  entered  the  cofFee-room  at  an  hour  unprecedently 
early  for  the  waiters  :  there  was  no  sign  of  breakfast,  but 
our  energetic  guide  made  short  work  of  all  difficulties. 
Anything  would  do  :  bread  and  coffee  would  be  sufficient. 
We  were  not  consulted  :  so  bread  and  coffee  it  was,  and 
before  we  had  achieved  much,  we  were  hurried  to  the 
road,  and  began  the  further  climb  to  the  summit  of  the 
mountain.  We  left  Les  Avants  soon  after  eight:  we 
toiled  upward  with  desperate  haste  :  our  joyous-hearted  and 
athletic  guide  gave  us,  inadvertently,  occasional  intervals 
of  rest,  when  he  visited  some  shepherd's  hut  and  held 
animated  conversation  with  his  quondam  parishioners.  He 
fared  better  than  we,  for  his  friends  gladly  brought  forth 
for  him  such  refreshments  as  they  had  :  buttermilk  seemed 
to  be  the  most  usual  or  the  favourite  offering.   We  reached 


8o         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


the  highest  point  of  our  toilful  journey  about  twelve  or  one, 
and  we  then  commenced  the  descent  to  the  Rossiniere  valley. 
Shall  1  ever  forget  the  staggering  incompetence  of  my  foot- 
steps down  the  stony  and  steep  path  ?  I  felt  like  Jonathan, 
faint  for  lack  of  food.  I  was  hardly  master  of  myself  :  had 
we  encountered  some  really  dangerous  obstacle  or  some 
damp  and  slippery  piece  of  ground,  1  think  my  descent 
might  have  been  involuntarily  rapid.  As  it  was,  I  practised 
the  stagger  victorious,  and  landed  safely  at  the  door  of  a 
picturesque  inn,  where  we  hoped  to  find  rest  and  refresh- 
ment ;  but,  alas  1  "  man  never  is  but  only  to  be  blessed." 
Judge  of  our  dismay  !  No  food  was  to  be  had  till  it  could 
be  fetched  from  Chateau  d'Oex — three  miles  further  up 
the  valley.  My  brother-in-law  and  I  were  quite  exhausted  ; 
we  made  some  excuse  and  retired  to  our  rooms,  and  lay 
down  on  the  beds,  faint,  but  expectant — hardening  our- 
selves to  wait  with  patience  till  food  should  come.  The 
rest  of  that  day  is  silence  :  we  were  fit  for  little  ;  we  stayed 
at  the  little  inn,  and  we  longed  for  sleep;  but  sleep  was  coy 
and  external  circumstances  were  inimical  :  we  had  chosen  an 
unfortunate  day  for  our  visit.  The  annual  sale  of  the 
mountains  was  to  take  place,  and  the  little  village  was 
crowded  by  shepherds  and  others  who  wished  to  bid  for  the 
right  of  pasture.  They  seemed  too  eager  to  sleep :  at  any 
rate  they  crowded  under  the  windows  the  whole  night 
through,  and  sleep,  difficult  to  woo  by  over-tired  men,  fled 
away  before  the  clamour  of  tongues.  Our  cheerful  and 
athletic  guide,  the  Swiss  pastor,  vanished.  No  doubt  he 
was  swallowed  up  by  his  former  parishioners  :  we  saw  him 
no  more.    The  next  day  we  hired  a  vehicle  and  drove 


VILLA  LUCAS  OR  PRANGINS  81 


through  La  Gruyere  and  reached  some  point  on  the  railway, 
and  returned  to  the  Villa  Lucas  or  Prangins,  We  had  seen 
wonderful  ranges  of  mountains  :  we  had  crossed  over 
spacious  slopes  of  rich  grass  land,  and  we  had  reached  a 
cool  and  secluded  valley,  in  which  were  crowded  throngs  of 
countrymen  keenly  interested  in  rural  industries.  The 
memory  holds  a  blurred  panorama  of  dazzling  snow,  cloud- 
capped  heights,  glowing  or  shaded  green,  but  all  is  seen 
under  a  faint  mist,  for  we  beheld  all  with  tired  eyes,  and 
my  recollection  of  the  scenery  is  dreamlike  and  splendid. 
I  think  we  were  both  glad  to  be  once  more  under  a  friendly 
roof  by  the  shores  of  the  quiet  lake. 

That  quiet  lake,  however,  could  grow  stormy  at  times. 
One  experience  we  had,  which-  for  the  moment  filled  me 
with  doubt,  for  a  catastrophe  was  not  impossible.  We  had 
rowed  into  Nyon,  and  on  our  way  home  we  put  the  lady  of 
the  party  in  charge  of  the  rudder  while  we  pulled  back.  A 
sudden  squall  came  down  upon  the  lake,  and  when  we 
were  rounding  the  last  point  on  our  homeward  way  we 
met  the  full  force  of  it.  Just  then  our  steerswoman  cried 
that  the  task  was  too  much  for  her,  and  asked  one  of  us 
to  take  the  rudder  ;  but  to  change  places  at  such  a  moment 
was  too  perilous,  and  I  said,  "  You  must  hold  on."  She 
did  hold  on  gallantly,  and  we  passed  into  quieter  waters, 
and  at  last  into  the  peace  and  protection  of  the  little 
harbour. 

Another  experience  we  had.  Matilda  and  I  once  took 
the  boat  and  rowed  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  lake. 
After  a  little  ramble  there  we  re-embarked  and  began  our 
return  journey.    When  we  were  half-way  across  I  became 

G 


82         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


aware  of  a  difference  in  the  power  of  our  oars  ;  my  wife's 
oar  seemed  suddenly  to  gain  such  an  overmastering  strength 
that  the  boat  no  longer  kept  a  straight  course.  At  first  I 
thought  she  was  trying  to  outpull  me,  but  no  extra  effort 
of  mine  seemed  to  make  any  difference.  At  last  the  truth 
dawned  upon  us  :  we  were  in  the  swift  Rhone  current,  and 
we  had  to  allow  for  its  force,  and  shape  our  course  accord- 
ingly. It  threatened  to  sweep  us  far  to  the  westward,  but 
by  patient  observation,  and  by  discreetly  applied  force,  we 
before  long  escaped  the  limit  of  the  river  current,  and 
continued  on  our  way  quietly  homeward. 

After  six  weeks  of  happy  sojourn  we  turned  our  faces 
homeward.  On  our  way  we  visited  Strasburg,  and  spent 
a  few  hours  at  Metz.  The  pedantic  officialism  of  German 
railway  authorities  forced  itself  upon  our  notice.  It  was 
a  bitterly  cold  night,  and  my  mother,  who  was  no  longer 
young,  felt  the  cold  greatly.  When  we  reached  one  station 
the  officials  flung  open  the  carriage  door,  and  the  keen  wind 
streamed  in  upon  us.  I  closed  the  door,  whereupon  an 
angry  and  arrogant  official  threw  it  open  again,  murmuring 
some  threatening  words.  I  closed  it  again,  for  it  was  not 
only  a  matter  of  discomfort  for  us  all,  but  it  was  one  of 
danger  for  my  mother.  Again  the  martinet  mind  of 
officialism  worked  against  the  comfort  and  safety  of  passen- 
gers, and  so  the  little  duel  between  us  continued  till  we 
steamed  out  of  the  station. 

At  Strasburg  we  went  on  the  Sunday  to  the  church  which 
is  honoured  by  the  monument  to  John  Tauler.  We  found 
ourselves  in  a  church  then  used  as  a  kind  of  garrison  church. 
My  wife  and  I  were  the  only  non-military  people  in  the 


VILLA  LUCAS  OR  PRANGINS  83 

church,  which  was  filled  with  soldiers,  I  think  I  was  able 
to  understand  their  pride  when  I  saw  that  great  company- 
gathered  there  in  German  uniforms  in  front  of  the  monu- 
ment which  commemorated  the  exploits  of  Marshal  Saxe. 
As  I  listened  to  the  sound  of  men's  voices,  singing  in  slow 
and  stately  style  some  favourite  chorale,  there  rushed  upon 
me  the  feeling  that  their  religion  was  one  of  race-faith. 
This  company  was  praising  a  God  who  was  a  God  of 
Germany :  they  were  the  subjects  of  a  religion  which  was 
in  essence  Israelitish.  It  was  not  the  voice  of  personal 
religion,  of  contrition  and  trust  :  it  was  faith  in  the  God 
of  their  race  and  of  their  armies :  it  was  solemn  and  impres- 
sive. The  crucifix  was  upon  the  altar,  but  the  highest 
Christian  note  was  lacking  in  the  service.  Then  I  perceived 
the  racial  quality  in  German  religious  thought  which  has  be- 
come more  plain  to  us  all  since  the  war  began.  The  faith  in 
a  divine  favouritism  has  been  the  ruin  of  many  lands  ;  and 
the  world  is  slow  to  read  the  double  motto  of  Christ's 
religion  :  "  In  Christ  Jesus  there  is  neither  Jew  nor  Greek, 
barbarian,  Scythian,  bond  nor  free  "  ;  and  this  other :  "  In 
every  nation  he  that  feareth  God  and  worketh  righteous- 
ness is  accepted  of  Him  " — two  passages  which  find  their 
parallel  in  another  pair  of  sayings  :  "  The  Lord  knoweth 
them  that  are  His,"  and,  "  Let  every  one  that  nameth  the 
name  of  Christ  depart  from  iniquity."  When  will  the 
world  realize  that  righteousness  is  the  highest  and  truest 
orthodoxy,  and  that  it,  and  not  race,  counts  in  the  counsels 
of  God  ? 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES 


Some  friends  complained  that  in  my  former  book  I 
have  said  so  little  about  my  life  as  bishop.  I  do  not  know 
what  my  brothers  in  the  episcopate  may  feel,  but  for  my- 
self I  should  say  that  there  is  little  to  chronicle  in  the 
routine  life  of  a  bishop.  It  is  only  now  and  then  that  some 
affair  yields  some  special  or  dramatic  experience.  Normally 
speaking,  when  the  machine  is  working  well  there  is  little 
which  affords  motives  or  incidents  demanding  any  record. 
Certainly  it  may  be  laid  down  as  an  axiom  that  when  things 
are  going  well  there  is  little  to  chronicle.  Like  the  body, 
the  diocese  is  unaware  of  its  organs  except  when  there  is 
local  disturbance.  Then,  of  course,  there  is  trouble,  and 
then  the  head  knows  that  there  is  trouble.  The  bishop,  too, 
is  like  the  coxswain  of  a  college  boat.  If  the  race  is  suc- 
cessful it  is  the  oarsmen  who  have  won  it.  If  the  race  is  lost 
it  has  been  lost  through  bad  steering.  If  there  is  trouble 
in  a  parish,  the  question  is,  "  Why  doesn't  the  bishop  do 
something  "  and  as  soon  as  he  does  anything  the  question 
is,  "  Why  does  the  bishop  interfere  .'' " 

Nevertheless  the  parishioners  of  any  parish  are  generally 
very  kind  :  they  welcome  the  bishop  when  he  visits  the 
parish  to  open  the  church  after  restoration,  to  open  the  new 
schools,  to  dedicate  the  new  window,  or  the  new  organ,  or 
the  new  font.  Then  the  flag  floats  from  the  church  tower  ; 
84 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES  85 


the  village  band  is  out  :  the  choristers  robe  themselves  in 
surplices  fairly  free  from  ironmould  :  the  bells  are  heard, 
their  sweet  clamour  wakes  the  countryside  :  the  boy  scouts 
form  a  guard  of  honour :  the  service  is  to  be  "  quite  short," 
which  means  that  the  exhortation  is  to  be  abbreviated,  but 
the  hymns  are  to  be  multiplied,  and  the  anthem  elongated 
to  the  utmost  capacity  of  the  choir.  It  is  all  very  hearty 
and  earnest,  and  pleasing  and  kindly  and  exhausting.  The 
time  spent  in  reaching  the  church  :  the  service  followed  by 
a  luncheon — ^1  beg  pardon,  a  cold  collation  :  the  speeches, 
the  introductions  :  the  various  few  words  to  be  spoken — 
to  our  good  ladies'  committee  who  arranged  the  refresh- 
ments :  to  the  Church  Lads'  Brigade :  to  the  children  in  the 
schools :  these  things  mean  a  fatiguing  though  a  happy  day. 
The  quiet  of  the  railway  carriage  as  you  travel  home  is  like 
peace  after  storm.  You  fling  your  poor  body  down  :  you 
think  you  will  find  refreshment  in  a  book,  but  your  jaded 
mind  is  irresponsive  to  the  words  on  its  inviting  pages  :  the 
brain,  denuded  of  nourishing  blood,  refuses  to  work.  You 
endure  the  hour  of  the  homeward  journey,  and  you  know 
that  you  have  gone  beyond  the  limit  when  work  is  naturally 
followed  by  recuperative  sleep.  You  hope  for  some  interval 
of  repose,  but  your  engagement-book  inexorably  tells  you 
that  to-morrow  is  as  to-day,  and  even  much  more  abundant. 

There  is  joy  in  work,  notwithstanding  its  fatigues.  The 
memory  of  the  bright  and  hospitable  faces  ;  the  insight  into 
this  little  leafy  corner  of  honest  and  simple  work  ;  the 
realization  of  its  happy  order  and  brotherly  co-operation  ; 
these  things  bring  a  glad  content  into  the  heart,  and 
abundantly  compensate  for  any  fatigue. 


86         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


The  limits  of  time  and  space  make  things  difficult. 
Sometimes  similar  functions  are  arranged  for  the  same  day 
in  parishes  a  goodly  distance  apart  from  one  another.  I 
remember  having  to  institute  and  induct  two  vicars  on  the 
same  day  ;  one  function  was  in  Leeds,  the  other  some 
twenty  miles  distant  by  rail.  I  had  fixed  the  times  and  the 
trains  ;  but  the  good  people,  with  the  new  vicar,  at  the 
first  function  had  some  musical  ambitions  ;  the  arrangements 
were  so  elaborate  that  there  was  considerable  preliminary 
delay  ;  processional  hymns  of  inordinate  length,  an  anthem 
of  ambitious  character,  prolonged  the  service.  At  last, 
during  the  singing  of  a  hymn,  I  went  across  to  the  vicar 
and  said,  I  must  be  at  the  Leeds  Station  in  ten  minutes." 
This  I  said  to  warn  him  that  I,  at  least,  must  leave  to  fulfil 
my  next  engagement.  Having  given  the  warning,  I  went 
to  the  pulpit  to  preach  my  sermon.  I  caught  my  train  and 
fulfilled  the  more  distant  engagement.  But  such  expe- 
riences are  a  little  trying  to  the  nerves.  The  use  of  a 
motor  considerably  reduced  the  strain  of  these  nervous 
experiences. 

But  the  real  trials  of  a  bishop's  life  come  from  the 
unreasonable  and  wicked  men  from  whom  even  an  apostle 
desired  to  be  delivered.  I  think  that  a  vicar  who  habitually 
drinks  may  be  classed  among  the  wicked.  How  far  his 
parishioners  may  be  classed  among  the  unreasonable,  let 
the  following  plain,  unvarnished  tale  declare. 

In  telling  the  tale  I  give  fictitious  names  of  parson  and 
parish.  Certainly  the  experiences  of  a  bishop's  life  are 
various.  Some,  I  believe,  who  read  my  former  book, 
thought  that  I  had  done  scant  justice  to  these  episcopal 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES  87 


experiences.  I  feel  tempted  to  expostulate,  and  to  say, 
"  Friend,  if  you  do  not  know,  can  you  not  realize, 
that  to  write  explicitly  of  a  bishop's  experiences  is  to  run 
the  risk  of  wounding  some  worthy  soul  ?  The  ordinary 
record  of  a  bishop's  doings  is  not  very  interesting.  Would 
it  amuse  or  edify  you  very  much  to  have  a  chronicle  of 
miles  travelled,  of  confirmations  held,  of  villages  visited,  of 
knotty  questions  disentangled  ?  "  No,  dear  reader,  you  wish 
something  more  piquant  than  these  things.  Precisely  so, 
yet  the  piquant  things  are  the  painful  things,  which,  being 
told,  may  bring  hurt  to  some  sensitive  spirit. 

I  can  only  touch  on  such  things  in  a  general  way  ;  or 
shall  I  say  that  it  may  be  profitable  to  generalize  my  expe- 
rience in  some  imaginary  incident,  which  can  be  justified  by 
memories  which  must  not  be  allowed  to  become  explicit 

I  wonder  what  is  the  most  demoralizing  habit  among 
the  many  habits  which  demoralize  men.  Some  will  say 
drink,  others  debauchery.  I  am  inclined  to  say  debt.  I 
have  had  to  deal  with  all.  Drink  demoralizes,  but  it  is  a 
strange  thing  that  when  a  parson  drinks  a  large  number  of 
his  parishioners  combine  to  protect  him.  They  feel  that 
the  weakness  is  very  human  ;  it  does  not  make  a  man  hard ; 
on  the  contrary,  when  he  has  indulged  he  is  companionable, 
amusing,  and  magnanimously  lenient  to  offenders.  "  Ha 
drinks,  but  he  is  a  good  sort,"  is  the  thought  of  many  who 
know  him  to  be  generous  and  kindly,  none  too  proud  to 
crack  a  joke  or  share  a  glass.  These  judgments  are  very 
partial  :  they  lose  sight  of  the  degradation  arising  from  a  low 
animalism  ;  they  forget  the  inconsistency  between  life  and 
profession  ;  and  they  breed  a  kind  of  inverted  chivalry,  which 


88         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


feels  bound  to  protect  the  offender  from  his  bishop.  Thus 
it  may  come  to  pass  that  a  clergyman  may  be  a  notoriously 
intemperate  man,  and  for  years  he  may  entrench  himself 
behind  the  defences  which  the  good-natured  of  his  people 
raise  on  his  behalf.  Here  is  a  case  which  I  give  in  veiled 
form. 

The  vicar  was  a  short,  stout  man,  with  rubicund,  but 
not  dissolutely  rubicund,  face  ;  he  wore  the  decent  black  of 
his  cloth.  Whatever  air  he  assumed  towards  his  parish- 
ioners, he  had  a  furtive  air  in  his  bishop's  presence.  He 
was  not  one  of  the  bland  and  insinuating  men  who  are  sure 
to  edge  themselves  to  the  front  at  a  diocesan  gathering,  and 
to  assume  an  air  of  deferential  familiarity  with  the  bishop. 
On  the  contrary,  the  stout  little  vicar  hides  away  among  the 
outskirts  of  the  throng,  and  shows  a  propensity  for  avoiding 
the  episcopal  glance.  He  drinks  ;  he  knows  that  he  drinks ; 
he  knows  that  his  people  know  that  he  drinks  ;  he  has  a 
suspicion  that  the  bishop  may  know  it  too.  He  keeps  in 
the  background.  Can  we  call  it  modesty  that  keeps  him 
there  Hardly,  but  yet — and  here  is  where  the  pathos  of 
it  comes  in — it  is  humility  of  a  sort.  It  is  the  self-conscious 
humility  which  feels  that  he  is  a  stained  creature  called  to 
mingle  among  his  brethren  who  are  not  smirched  as  he  is. 
Poor  soul,  he  cannot  pity  himself,  but  he  can  be  painfully 
conscious  of  self.  You,  who  know  what  is  wrong,  begin  to 
wonder  what  will  be  the  end  of  such  a  man's  career. 

I  will  tell  you.  He  will  go  on  for  a  time,  the  victim  of  a 
growing  habit,  till  at  length  his  conduct  causes  a  shock  to  the 
public  conscience  ;  then  the  parishioners  will  feel  aggrieved. 
They  will  resent  his  action  as  though  he  had  betrayed  a 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES  89 


trust  for  which  they,  as  well  as  he,  were  responsible.  What 
has  he  done  ?  Well,  perhaps  he  has  been  so  much  the 
victim  of  his  habit  that  he  cannot  walk  straight  up  the  aisle 
as  he  goes  to  read  the  prayers.  Perhaps  he  will  be  so 
fuddled  and  muddled  in  brain  that  he  picks  from  his  store 
of  MS.  sermons  an  inappropriate  discourse  ;  or  perhaps,  his 
brain  being  sodden,  he  forgets  what  sermon  he  preached 
in  the  morning,  and,  with  evidently  confused  mind  and 
markedly  inarticulate  delivery,  treats  his  people  to  the  same 
discourse  in  the  evening. 

The  more  conscientious  parishioners  are  aroused  ;  but 
I  must  go  on  with  my  story.  The  clergyman,  whom  I 
have  described,  was  vicar  of  Umpleton  Lackwater. 

The  village  of  Umpleton  Lackwater  was  situated  near 
to  a  great  coal  area,  where  several  mining  villages  are  to  be 
found.  The  vicar,  the  Rev.  David  Drinkwater,  was,  as  I 
said,  a  stout,  short  man  ;  he  had  a  round  face  and  scant 
sandy  hair  ;  he  had  manners  which  were  popular  in  the  place  : 
he  did  not  stand  strongly  on  ceremony.  His  ministrations,  if 
not  apostolic,  were  decently  sufficient  ;  for  a  time  no  criticisms 
or  complaints  were  heard,  but  it  seems  probable  from  what 
followed  that  his  intemperate  habits  were  well  known,  and 
either  unmurmuringly  taken  for  granted,  or  condoned  with 
an  amused  generosity.  But  it  fell  on  a  day — an  Easter 
Sunday,  to  wit — that  he  overstepped  the  limits  of  official 
parochial  patience  ;  and  there  my  knowledge  of  the  matter 
began.  A  deputation,  consisting  of  the  churchwardens  and 
three  or  four  other  parishioners,  waited  upon  me  with  a 
formal  complaint. 

"  Ower  parson  was  that  drunk,  he  were,  on  Sunday — 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


Easter  Sunday  that  was — that  he  couldn't  walk  straight 
up  the  aisle.  Yes,  and  he  preached  the  same  sermon  in  the 
evening  to  what  he  had  preached  in  t'  morning — not  that 
he  knew  what  he  was  doing  ;  he  were  that  drunk,  he  were." 

So  the  solemn  complaint  was  officially  lodged ;  the 
six  sturdy  parishioners  supporting  the  charge  with  due 
emphasis. 

I  told  them  that,  as  the  charge  was  so  explicit  and 
serious,  I  would  forthwith  appoint  a  commission  of  inquiry. 
This  I  did,  selecting  some  six  responsible  men — three  of 
them  being  clergymen  and  three  laymen.  But  before  the 
commissioners  could  meet  I  received  a  letter  from  the 
official  complainants,  the  gist  of  which  was  as  follows  :  they 
had  seen  the  accused  vicar,  and  he  had  promised  to  amend 
his  ways,  and  therefore  they  desired  that  the  matter  should 
be  dropped. 

My  reply  was  the  only  one  possible.  I  told  them  that 
the  case  was  too  serious  to  be  treated  in  the  way  they 
proposed  ;  that  as  they  had  made  explicit  charges,  it  was 
needful  that  they  should  be  investigated.  The  matter, 
having  been  brought  forward  seriously  and  formally,  could 
not  be  ignored  ;  the  inquiry  must  go  forward.  The 
commissioners,  accordingly,  visited  the  village  to  hold  the 
inquiry  ;  but  what  was  their  reception  .''  They  were  re- 
ceived with  black  looks  ;  stones  were  flung  at  them  ;  it 
was  impossible  to  hold  the  inquiry,  for  no  witnesses  were 
forthcoming. 

So  far,  in  an  attempt  to  do  justice,  wc  had  met  with 
failure.  But — and  here  is  the  astonishing  witness  to  the 
instability  of  some  human  minds — within  six  weeks  the 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES 


same  half-dozen  solemn-faced  parishioners  were  again  at  my 
door,  to  complain  of  the  drunken  habits  of  their  vicar. 
This  time,  I  am  afraid  that  1  did  not  receive  them  with 
much  sympathy.  I  told  them  that  they  were  not  the  sort 
of  men  I  could  help  ;  that  it  was  useless  to  come  whimper- 
ing and  complaining  to  me,  when  they  had  neither  the 
courage  to  support  their  own  cause,  nor  loyalty  to  support 
me  in  doing  my  duty.  So  I  gave  them  a  lecture,  and  told 
them  they  could  go  home,  and  that  they  need  not  complain 
to  me  till  they  knew  their  own  minds  and  were  prepared  to 
do  their  duty. 

I  was  in  despair  ;  here  was  a  parish  put  out  of  effective 
work  by  the  ill  conduct  of  the  vicar,  and  the  fatal  and  weak 
good  nature  of  the  people.  Happily,  however,  the  law  had 
put  a  new  weapon  into  my  hands  :  the  Clergy  Discipline 
Act  had  been  passed. 

Things  were  in  this  unsatisfactory  condition,  and  con- 
tinued so  till  an  opportunity  came  which  the  new  Act 
enabled  me  to  use  ;  so  when  it  came  I  seized  it  with 
alacrity.  One  morning  I  read  in  the  Yorkshire  Post  that 
there  had  been  a  disgraceful  scene  in  the  parish  of  Umple- 
ton  Lackwater.  A  little  child  had  died,  and  the  sorrowing 
parents  followed  their  little  one  to  the  grave  ;  but  the  vicar 
was  so  helplessly  intoxicated  that  he  could  not  even  read 
the  service  correctly  ;  he  outraged  the  feelings  of  the 
mourners  by  praying  for  a  joyful  corruption  instead  of  a 
joyful  resurrection  ;  he  shocked  public  sentiment  by  his 
helpless  condition  and  his  total  disregard  of  the  decencies  of 
life  and  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion.  1  at  once  sent  a 
trusty  official  to  the  parish  ;  he  gathered  evidence,  which  in 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


the  shocked  condition  of  village  feeling  was  easy  enough 
then.  Once  possessed  of  the  evidence,  I  cited  the  vicar  to 
appear  before  a  properly  constituted  court.  He  failed  to 
appear  ;  he  had  no  defence.  The  case  went  against  him, 
and  I  deprived  him  of  his  benefice. 

But  the  affair  was  not  ended.  The  law  required  that, 
after  an  interval  of  three  weeks,  a  second  court  should  be 
held,  at  which  the  bishop  could,  if  no  difficulties  or  objec- 
tions had  arisen  in  the  interval,  declare  that  the  benefice  was 
vacant.  This  second  court  was,  of  course,  an  open  court, 
and  public  notice  was  given  that  it  would  be  held  on  a 
certain  day.  It  was  held  at  Leeds,  and  to  Leeds  I  went  for 
the  closing  scene  of  this  little  drama.  Judge  of  human 
nature,  measure  once  more  the  unexpected  windings  of  that 
inexplicable  mechanism,  the  mind  of  the  average  man.  At 
the  court,  the  six  stalwart,  imperturbable,  self-contradictory 
official  parishioners  appeared.  Calm,  undismayed  and  un- 
ashamed, they  commenced  as  soon  as  the  court  was  open  to 
lay  before  me  their  petition  that  I  would  not  deprive  them 
of  their  vicar.  One  man  more  unctuous,  and  perhaps  less 
intelligent,  than  the  rest,  came  armed  with  his  Bible.  With 
a  pleading  and  pathetic  voice,  he  said  :  "  I  read  in  the 
Bible,  '  Let  it  alone  this  year  also.'  Give  him  a  chance  to 
change — '  Let  it  alone  this  year  also  !  '  " 

I  said  :  "  You  are  too  late.  I  cut  it  down  three  weeks 
ago." 

The  plea  was  monstrous  ;  the  case  was  a  scandalous 
one  ;  for  six  years  the  misconduct  of  this  vicar  had  been 
like  an  open  sore  in  the  neighbourhood  ;  for  six  years 
every  attempt  to  deal  with  the  matter  had  been  baffled  and 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES 


evaded  ;  the  vacillating  conduct  of  the  responsible  guardians 
of  the  church  had  been  an  obstacle  to  justice  ;  it  was  im- 
perative that  the  standard  of  clerical  life  should  be  vindicated. 
The  world  suffers  much  from  the  wicked,  but  it  suffers  ten 
times  more  from  the  weak.  Life  would  be  purer,  better, 
more  wholesome  and  more  happy,  if  virtue  and  right  were 
not  perpetually  handicapped  by  weak  and  gushing  senti- 
mentahsm.  The  weakness  of  these  stout  Yorkshiremen 
was  the  same  as  the  weakness  of  indiscriminating  alms- 
givers.  The  sentimentalist  insists  on  turning  on  the  tap, 
but  he  deprecates  stopping  the  leak. 

1  felt  no  inclination  to  pay  heed  to  the  pleadings  of 
men  so  weakly  inconsistent,  so  hopelessly  illogical  as  these 
parishioners  of  Umpleton,  and  I  declared  the  benefice 
vacant.  The  result  was  that  an  active  and  conscientious 
vicar  took  the  place  of  a  self-indulgent  slacker  ;  work  in 
the  parish  became  active,  and  the  reproach  of  the  past 
was  done  away. 

The  story  is  one  which  can  be  repeated  by  the  experi- 
ence of  other  bishops.  It  deals  with  an  offence  which  of 
all  others  is  most  difficult  to  deal  with.  Intemperance  as 
an  offence  is  illusive  :  it  can  excuse  itself  by  a  hundred 
subterfuges.  The  offender  is  a  victim  of  wicked  mis- 
representation ;  he  did  not  stagger  as  a  drunken  man 
staggers  ;  he  stumbled,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  due  to  a 
passing  giddiness  which  resulted  from  a  weak  digestion  ; 
or  he  was  the  victim  of  a  foolish  indiscretion — a  glass  of 
wine,  taken  for  good  nature's  sake,  but  unwarily  taken  on 
an  empty  stomach  ;  such  a  man  as  he  was  never  even  on 
the  borders  of  intoxication  before  ;  his  wife  can  testify  to 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


his  abstemious  habits.  An  experienced  chancellor  said  to 
me  that  he  never  would  convict  a  clergyman  of  intemper- 
ance, because  he  knew  how  many  mistaken  and  false 
accusations  had  been  made  on  the  subject.  This  is  one 
view  of  the  matter  ;  another  view  is  that  there  is  probably 
in  every  diocese  a  small  percentage  of  such  cases,  and  that 
every  one  of  such  cases  means  paralysed  activity  in  the 
parish,  and  throughout  the  neighbourhood  a  general  decline 
in  the  spiritual  influence  of  the  clergy.  These  cases,  and 
the  scandals  of  a  more  flagrant  character,  are  fatal  to  the 
success  of  Church  work.  Happily,  these  gross  scandals  are 
rare.  I  can  only  recall  three  or  four  cases  which  came 
under  my  own  knowledge,  and  only  one  of  them  was  of  an 
aggravated  character. 

Of  less  gross  ofi^ences,  perhaps  the  most  troublesome 
is  the  offence  of  the  self-willed  parson.  This  is  the 
class  of  man  who  is  a  born  egotist,  who  has  not  the 
slightest  apprehension  of  his  duty  to  win  men  by  the 
spirit  of  gentleness  and  love.  He  never  asks  what  will 
profit  his  people,  but  only  what  will  please  himself  ;  he  has 
a  perverse  way  of  believing  that  any  change  which  will  give 
pleasure  to  himself  must  prove  profitable  and,  indeed, 
pleasant  to  his  people.  He  reminds  me  of  the  man  who 
liked  pepper  in  his  soup,  and  who  accordingly  proceeded  to 
pepper  the  contents  of  the  soup  tureen  on  the  plea  that  he 
supposed  everybody  liked  pepper  with  their  soup. 

One  such  parson  I  remember  ;  he  was  a  strange  mix- 
ture ;  he  had  a  certain  rough  courage  :  he  had  shown 
conspicuous  pluck  in  attempting  to  rescue  life.  He  be- 
came vicar  of  a  populous  parish  in  a  northern  town.  Soon 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES 


we  had  trouble.  The  parish  was  poor  ;  its  scant  resources 
placed  a  heavy  burden  on  the  churchwardens,  who  were 
responsible  for  church  expenses.  Cleaning,  lighting,  heat- 
ing, repairs,  payment  of  organist  and  vergers,  made  up  items 
of  considerable  annual  expenditure. 

But  the  vicar  had  large  ideas  ;  his  imaginative  ambition 
was  unchastened  by  the  base  consideration  of  ways  and 
means.  An  organ  in  a  London  church  was  for  sale  ;  it  was 
an  organ  that  had  some  historic  associations:  the  famous 
Father  Smith,  it  was  whispered,  had  had  some  share  in  its 
making.  The  vicar's  soul  took  fire — Why  should  not  the 
church  of  St.  Boanerges  own  such  an  organ  That  it 
already  possessed  an  organ  was  an  irrelevant  detail — that 
there  was  no  money  to  pay  for  it  was  a  matter  of  no  conse- 
quence. So  the  adventurous  vicar  bought  the  organ  ; 
the  organ  was  brought  down  from  London  ;  it  was  erected 
in  the  church,  which  now  could  boast  of  two  organs.  Then 
came  the  bill  :  how  was  the  bill  to  be  paid !  An  organ  was 
clearly  an  item  of  church  expenses  :  the  churchwardens 
must  pay.  The  churchwardens  declined  :  they  had  not 
ordered  the  organ.  The  vicar  had  acted  on  his  own  re- 
sponsibility :  the  vicar  must  find  the  money.  Could  he  ? 
Then  came  to  the  vicar  a  happy  thought.  Reckless  men 
are  often  fertile  in  expedients  :  hence  the  vicar's  happy 
thought !  There  were  schools  in  the  parish  ;  the  schools 
had  school  buildings  ;  buildings  in  a  large  town  constitute  a 
valuable  asset.  The  vicar  was  chairman  of  the  school  com- 
mittee ;  the  few  hundred  pounds  required  for  the  organ 
could  easily  be  raised  by  mortgaging  the  school  premises  ' 
With  a  happy  confidence  the  vicar  brought  the  matter  before 


96         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


the  school  committee  :  to  his  surprise  and  disgust  the  com- 
mittee did  not  agree  to  such  a  proposal.  Inquiries  were 
addressed  to  the  bishop.  The  reply  was  inevitable  :  the 
schools  and  school  buildings  were  a  separate  trust  :  such 
property  could  not  be  mortgaged  on  behalf  of  expenditure 
in  church.  The  vicar  was  baffled,  but  when  he  was  at  his 
wits'  end  deliverance  came  ;  a  rich  man  bought  the  organ 
and  claimed  it  as  his  own,  but  allowed  it  meanwhile  to 
remain  in  the  church. 

But  the  vicar's  propensities  soon  led  him  into  further 
trouble.  When  he  was  in  London  he  saw  a  picture  ;  it 
would  look  nice  in  the  church  :  it  was  bought  and  sent 
down.  Another  time,  he  saw  some  handsome  banners ! 
How  gloriously  they  would  adorn  the  chancel.  Bills  came  in 
to  the  churchwardens  ;  expenses  grew  ;  receipts  did  not  ;  the 
bank  account  was  overdrawn  ;  the  bankers  called  attention 
to  the  state  of  the  church  account.  There  was  friction, 
followed  by  dispute.  The  bishop  was  appealed  to.  A 
meeting  was  held  at  the  bank  to  look  into  affairs.  The 
vicar  and  churchwardens  met  the  bishop  in  the  bank  par- 
lour— one  of  the  bank's  officials  being  present.  After  some 
altercation,  an  arrangement  was  made.  The  churchwardens 
were  to  have  charge  of  the  ordinary  offertory — indeed,  of  all 
offertories  except  those  which  were  announced  beforehand 
for  a  specific  object.  The  churchwardens  were  satisfied  : 
they  left  the  bank  contented  and  even  hopeful. 

But  these  hopes  were  destined  to  disappointment. 
They  had  forgotten  the  artifices  of  the  extravagant.  The 
funds  which  they  relied  upon  were  soon  and  frequently 
bespoken  ;  for  the  vicar  would  give  notice  that  the  offertory 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES 


next  Sunday  would  be  for  the  new  banners — for  a  picture — 
for  an  altar  cloth.  Thus  once  again  the  wardens  were 
reduced  to  despair  and  found  themselves  face  to  face  with 
bankruptcy  ! 

Meanwhile  the  vicar,  light-hearted,  optimistic,  not  much 
troubled  with  conscience,  thought  to  increase  the  resources 
of  the  church  by  booming  it  as  the  abode  of  "  advanced  " 
services.  Any  innovation  in  ceremonial,  any  novelty  in  vest- 
ment, any  daring  experiment  in  service  or  song  which 
occurred  to  his  active  mind  was  attempted.  Try  ritualism 
was,  for  this  epoch,  his  motto  !  Moved  by  this  spirit  of  new 
enterprise,  he  dreamed  dreams  of  notoriety  as  a  champion 
of  advanced  catholicity.  He  took  a  journey  :  he  visited  a 
peer  who  was  well  known  for  Catholic  proclivities — in  his 
presence  the  vicar  tried  to  pose  as  an  ardent  follower  of  the 
Ritual  movement.  The  sham  earnestness  did  not  deceive 
the  nobleman.  The  lion's  skin  did  not  sufficiently  hide  the 
animal  beneath  ;  the  vicar  returned  disappointed.  He  had 
made  a  bid  for  support  and  sympathy  :  he  hoped  for 
notoriety.  It  was  after  this  vain  attempt  that  I  had  an 
amusing  interview  with  this  chameleon-like  vicar. 
:  ;  .  I  met  him  by  appointment  at  the  Queen's  Hotel,  Leeds. 
He  began  to  explain  some  of  his  eccentricities  in  the  con- 
duct of  divine  worship.  He  pleaded  that  he  had  been 
exposed  to  great  pressure  on  the  part  of  others. 

"  You  don't  know  how  severely  I  have  been  pressed  to 
do  these  things." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  no  doubt  ;  but  you  were  not  pressed 

to  go  and  see  Lord  .    You  sought  him  ;  he  did  not 

seek  you." 

H 


98         FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


His  face  fell  :  he  saw  that  he  could  no  longer  shelter 
himself  under  the  plea  of  pressure. 

1  looked  at  him,  and  I  said  :  "  I  should  have  some 
sympathy  with  you  and  respect  for  you,  if  you  were  a  born 
ritualist  ;  but  you  have  no  constitutional  fitness  for  such  a 
role.  God  meant  you  to  be  a  rnuscular  Christian." 
He  was  silent  and  said  :  "  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  " 
"  Why  do  I  say  that .''  "  I  replied.  "  Go  over  there  and 
look  at  your  face  in  the  glass  and  you  will  see  what  I  mean. 
Is  that  brow,  that  structure  of  face,  the  face  of  a  man 
naturally  given  to  the  love  of  ceremonial  and  the  reverence 
for  tradition  and  authority  ?  You  know  what  I  say  is  true. 
You  have  no  genuine  disposition  towards  this  way  of  pre- 
senting the  Christian  faith  to  your  fellow-men.  If  you 
were  following  a  natural  bent  it  would  be  different  :  you 
are  affecting  a  pose  not  your  own  :  you  are  not  honest  with 
yourself  in  this  matter." 

He  looked  at  me,  and  then  he  said  :  "  I  never  supposed 
that  you  thought  about  your  clergy  like  that." 

I  replied  :  "  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  know  some- 
thing of  men's  characters.  Faces  tell  their  tale.  There  are 
men  with  whom  I  disagree  and  yet  whom  I  can  respect  ; 
but  I  cannot  have  respect  for  a  man  who  is  cast  for  one  role 
and  seeks  for  notoriety  by  playing  another.  Be  a  man  : 
you  have  shown  qualities  of  physical  courage  :  there  is  a 
place  for  you  and  work  for  you :  God  has  called  you  to  it. 
Be  a  man  and  do  it.    Above  all,  be  true  to  yourself." 

The  interview  ended.  I  hoped  something  from  it,  but 
I  feared  the  influence  of  the  false  atmosphere  in  which  he 
had  been  raised.    His  grandfather  had  been  a  tradesman 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES  99 


whose  descriptive  powers  had  been  amazing  ;  his  father  had 
a  gift  for  self-advertisement.  The  young  man  had  breathed 
the  air  of  unreality  since  his  childhood. 

Shortly  after  the  interview  I  have  described,  he  left 
the  diocese  for  a  benefice  in  another  part  of  England.  He 
gained  a  strange  ascendancy  over  the  mind  of  a  young  man 
of  large  means  :  he  became  involved  in  litigation  and  at 
length  disappeared  from  social  view.  It  was  a  pity  :  one 
felt  that  good  material  of  life  had  been  wasted. 

It  is  not,  however,  the  men  whose  faults  become  con- 
spicuous and  whom  retribution  smites  with  hard  blows  who 
are  most  to  be  pitied.  There  is  a  worse  punishment  than 
that  of  social  failure  and  public  disgrace.  1  tremble  often 
for  the  man  who  escapes  such  retribution,  whose  adroit- 
ness enables  him  to  maintain  his  public  credit,  and  who  is 
tempted  to  measure  his  character  by  his  success.  Some- 
where there  must  be  an  awakening  of  self-revelation  for 
such.  It  is  sad  to  mark  those  whose  sins  go  before  to 
judgment  ;  but  it  is  sadder  still  to  contemplate  those  whose 
sins  follow  after. 

It  is  one  of  the  painful  experiences  of  life  to  meet  with 
those  who  possess  the  happy  art  of  evading  the  painful  or 
public  consequences  of  their  actions,  and  perhaps  still  more 
painful  is  it  to  discover  suddenly  that  a  life  which  has 
seemed  decent,  decorous,  praiseworthy  is  only  so  in  seeming  : 
beneath  the  comely  surface  there  lurk  the  powers  of  hell  : 
dead  bones  lie  beneath  the  sumptuous  stonework. 

I  have  met  more  than  one  instance  of  this  unsuspected 
moral  rot.  I  can  recall  one  figure  —  a  clergyman  whose 
works  seemed  to  praise  him.    He  bore  himself  well :  no 


loo       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


coarse  lines  of  self-indulgent  habits  marred  his  face,  which 
was  meagre  rather  than  fleshy  ;  but  beneath  the  surface  of 
his  life  there  were  the  forces  of  ill.  Fraudulent  manage- 
ment of  accounts,  and  a  wicked  habit  of  corrupting  lads 
marked  the  underside  of  his  life.  To  tell  his  story  would 
be  to  tell  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  experiences  of  my 
life,  but  it  would  be  too  long  to  tell,  and  almost  unbelievable 
when  told. 

Perhaps  one  narrative  may  serve  to  illustrate  another 
form  of  fault  to  which  a  certain  class  of  character  is  liable. 
It  ought  not  to  be  met  with  in  clerical  life,  but  I  regret  to 
say  that  I  have  met  with  two  or  three  examples  of  it.  The 
fault  is^  the  inability  to  understand  the  requirements  of  the 
most  ordinary  code  of  honour. 

In  two  cases  which  I  can  recall,  this  fault  took  the  form 
of  a  readiness  to  take  advantage  of  a  legal  opportunity  to 
repudiate  an  honourable  obligation. 

But  to  my  story.  In  the  diocese  of  Ripon  there  are  not 
many  good  livings  (as  they  are  called)  in  the  bishop's  gift. 
Judge,  therefore,  of  my  pleasure  when  a  benefice  fell 
vacant  which  the  official  calendar  of  the  diocese  declared 
to  be  worth  nearly  ;^900  a  year.  Visions  of  the  happi- 
ness which  I  could  bring  to  the  heart  and  life  of  some 
good,  hardworking  clergyman  rose  before  my  fancy  ;  but 
vain  are  the  hopes  of  men,  and  their  visions  of  good 
pass  away  like  the  dreams  of  a  night !  The  benefice  was 
a  mother  benefice  :  scattered  round  it  were  three  or  four 
daughter  parishes  :  once  the  mother  church  had  been  re- 
sponsible for  the  spiritual  oversight  of  a  large  district  : 
then  in  the  various  hamlets  churches  had  sprung  up,  and  a 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES 


separate  parson  had  been  assigned  to  each  :  these  newer  or 
daughter  parishes  were  but  scantily  endowed  :  the  richest  of 
them  could  only  boast  ;^i4o  or  ^^150  a  year.  When  the 
vacancy  in  the  mother  church  occurred,  envious  and  eager 
eyes  were  cast  at  the  goodly  endowment  it  possessed. 

My  first  intimation  of  the  greedy  desires  of  these 
villages  came  from  a  squire  who  was  interested  in  one  of 
the  villages.  He  visited  me,  and  this  was  practically  what 
he  said  :  *  I  live  in  the  village  of  X,  but  I  pay  tithes  to  the 
amount  of  £160  a  year  to  the  vicar  of  the  mother  church  ; 
thus,  though  I  pay  this  goodly  sum  each  year,  my  own  vicar 
gets  no  benefit  from  it  ;  it  all  goes  out  of  my  own  parish 
into  the  coffers  of  the  grasping  mother  church."  I  confess 
that  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  had  a  genuine  grievance.  I 
promised  that  the  matter  should  be  "  looked  into." 

Once  the  spirit  of  readjusting  the  income  was  aroused, 
it  spread.  The  claims  of  the  village  of  X  had  been  set 
forth  :  the  claims  of  Y  and  Z,  two  other  dependent  villages, 
found  advocates,  and  I  am  not  sure  whether  another  village 
(say  W)  did  not  advance  similar  claims. 

A  commission  of  investigation  was  appointed  :  sober 
clergymen  and  staid  laymen  of  the  neighbourhood  met, 
considered  and  discussed  the  problem.  After  a  somewhat 
lengthy  inquiry,  they  presented  their  report.  They  advised 
that  the  claims  of  the  daughter  parishes  should  be  met, 
and  that  the  mother  church  should  be  stripped  of  some 
half  of  her  revenue.  Alas  !  for  my  goodly  benefice  !  The 
plum  became  a  very  small  one  :  it  was  hardly  a  damson 
now.  Where  I  had  hoped  to  be  able  to  bestow  a  benefice 
of  nearly  £^00  a  year,  I  found  that  I  was  the  patron  of  a 


I02       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


benefice  of  a  little  over  i,^oo.  There  was  worse  to  follow. 
The  £^00  was  but  a  scanty  endowment  for  a  benefice  which 
had  a  house  more  suited  to  an  income  of  ;^8oo  or  ^^900  ! 

My  choice  of  clergy  was  limited  :  the  benefice  could 
only  be  held  by  a  man  who  had  either  good  private  re- 
sources or  small  responsibilities.  I  offered  it  to  a  bachelor 
who  had  worked  hard  and  well  in  a  large  populous  parish. 

I  explained  to  him  that,  though  in  the  official  list  the 
benefice  was  described  as  worth  between  ;^8oo  and  ;^900, 
it  was,  as  I  could  offer  it  to  him,  only  worth  about 
half  that  sum.  I  explained  to  him  the  reductions  in  the 
value  of  the  benefice  recommended  by  the  commission 
and  approved  by  the  various  Church  authorities.  I  told 
him  that  the  legal  execution  of  the  proposed  changes  could 
not  be  carried  out  during  the  vacancy  of  the  benefice,  for 
the  vicar  of  the  old  parish  must  be  a  consenting  party. 
Hence  I  explained  to  him  that  I  offered  him  the  living  on 
the  understanding  that  he  would  join  in  giving  effect  to  the 
alienation  of  income  which  had  been  recommended  and 
approved.  He  accepted  the  benefice  on  the  conditions 
named. 

But  as  soon  as  he  was  in  possession  he  began  to  demur 
to  the  sacrifice  of  income  ;  he  delayed  :  he  sought  evasions  : 
he  was  ready  to  argue  against  his  honour.  I  began  to  fear 
that  there  might  be  a  failure  to  fulfil  the  arrangement  which 
would  benefit  the  daughter  parishes  and  to  the  fulfilment 
of  which  we  were  all  in  honour  pledged.  I  confess  that 
my  confidence  was  shaken  in  the  character  of  a  man  who 
was  ready  to  make  use  of  a  legal  position  to  evade  an 
honourable  understanding  and  who  for  a  money  advantage 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES  103 

was  willing  to  break  his  word.  It  was  the  discovery  of 
dead  men's  bones  beneath  a  whited  shrine. 

A  similar  case  I  had  which  was  as  dishonourable  and 
more  callous.    It  was  as  follows — 

It  was  considered  desirable  to  unite  two  benefices. 
Accordingly  it  was  arranged  that  on  the  next  vacancy  of 
either  of  the  two  benefices,  the  vicar  of  the  other  should 
become  vicar  of  the  joint  benefices,  which  would  then 
become  one  united  parish.  After  a  time  the  vicar  of  one 
parish,  which  we  may  call  A,  wished,  as  he  was  growing 
infirm,  to  resign  on  pension  ;  he  was  entitled  under  Act 
of  Parliament  to  a  pension  amounting  to  one-third  of  the 
value  of  the  benefice  he  held  :  this  meant  that  he  might 
receive  perhaps  £100  a  year — not  a  very  extravagant  pension 
for  a  man  after  some  forty  years  of  service.  The  vicar  of 
the  other  parish,  B,  became  the  vicar  of  the  joint  parishes 
of  A  and  B,  and  as  such  he  was  to  receive  the  income  of  A 
as  well  as  that  of  B.  But  judge  of  our  amazement  when  the 
new  vicar  refused  to  pay  the  pension  to  the  resigning  vicar 
— and  was  prepared  to  stand  for  his  legal  rights  on  the 
ground  that  the  Act  of  Parliament  assigned  to  him  the  in- 
comes of  both  the  former  separate  parishes.  What  the  final 
interpretation  of  the  law  would  have  been,  had  the  matter 
come  into  the  courts,  I  cannot  say,  but  the  claim  and  plea 
made  by  the  vicar  of  B  shocked  the  moral  sense  of  every 
right-minded  man.  Before  any  steps  could  be  taken  the 
dear  old  vicar  of  A,  a  man  of  godly  conversation  and 
well  learned  withal,  settled  the  matter  by  dying  peacefully. 

Lack  of  sensitiveness  to  the  claims  of  honour  may,  it 
seems,  co-exist  with  a  certain  measure  of  what  appears  to 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


be  genuine  piety  ;  but  I  confess  that  it  is  not  a  quality  of 
piety  which  appeals  to  my  respect. 

Debt. — There  are  many  clergymen  who  have,  on  very 
slender  means,  kept  out  of  debt  by  a  hard  and  heroic  course 
of  self-denial.  The  story  of  uncomplaining  suffering,  of 
straitened  means,  of  inadequate  food,  of  a  life  unmitigated 
by  occasional  recreation,  will,  I  suppose,  never  be  written  ; 
but  in  many  vicarages  this  kind  of  painful  drama  has  been 
enacted.  In  quiet  country  parsonages  have  lived  and  died 
men  and  women  whose  lives  were  one  prolonged  self-denial, 
and  who  have  gone  silent  and  unapplauded  to  the  grave. 

There  have  been  real  heroes  among  the  clergy,  and  the 
bulk  of  them,  to  their  honour  be  it  said,  manage  to  live  and 
to  bring  up  their  families  with  credit — often  and  often  upon 
very  scanty  means. 

But  of  course  there  are  exceptions,  and  these  were  occa- 
sions of  the  greatest  trouble  and  perplexity.  An  illustration 
or  two  will,  perhaps,  prove  the  best  way  of  showing  the 
difficulties  created  by  the  impecunious  and  extravagant  parson. 

The  Rev.  Samuel  Spendall — the  name  is,  of  course, 
fictitious — was  the  vicar  of  a  country  parish.  The  parish 
consisted  of  a  long,  straggling  village,  and  had  a  population 
of,  perhaps,  looo  souls.  It  was  in  a  healthy  neighbour- 
hood ;  the  country  was  undulating,  and  a  long  ridge  of 
hills  led  the  way  to  fresh  and  invigorating  moorland.  The 
vicar  had  a  wife  and  a  small  family.  The  income  of  his 
benefice  was  moderate  ;  it  was  not  among  the  poverty- 
stricken  benefices  which  are  regularly  helped  from  diocesan 
funds,  neither  was  it  among  those  which  set  the  incumbents 
well  above  the  pressure  of  want.   It  was  a  benefice  of  about 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES  105 


average  income,  and  the  vicar  added  to  the  income  by- 
opening  his  house  to  pupils.  For  a  time  I  heard  nothing 
of  any  impending  trouble  ;  parish  affairs  seemed  to  pursue 
the  even  tenor  of  their  way  ;  but  one  day  a  good  and 
kindly  minded  layman  called  upon  me  and  explained  his 
benevolent  errand. 

"  I  am  endeavouring,"  he  said,  "  to  collect  privately  a 
sum  of  money  to  defray  our  vicar's  debts.  He  owes  a 
considerable  amount  of  money,  and  I  am  out  to  collect 
enough  to  set  him  free  of  debt, 

I  looked  at  this  well-disposed  and  energetic  philanthro- 
pist, and  I  said,  "  You  are  doing  one  of  the  kindest  things 
which  a  layman  can  do  for  a  clergyman.  The  only  thing 
which  I  would  ask  of  you  is,  that  you  would  make  sure 
that  you  know  all  the  debts  of  your  vicar  ;  for  my  expe- 
rience is,  that  a  man  in  debt  never  tells  the  whole  truth — 
perhaps  because  he  cannot,  perhaps  because  he  will  not." 
And  then  I  asked,  "  How  much  does  your  vicar  owe  ? " 

The  answer  was,  "  Fifteen  hundred  pounds." 
"Well,"  I  said,  "I  am  ready  to  help,  and  I  will  con- 
tribute to  your  fund,  but  on  the  understanding  that  we  can 
really  clear  up  the  whole  debt,  and  avoid  any  future  trouble 
in  the  matter." 

The  good  layman  quite  agreed  with  me,  and  promised 
to  do  his  best  to  obtain  a  full,  clear  and  exhaustive  statement 
of  the  debts. 

The  fifteen  hundred  pounds  was  raised,  and  the  debts, 
it  was  believed,  were  paid  ;  but  within  a  twelvemonth  the 
Rev.  Samuel  Spendall  was  in  the  impecunious  position  of 
owing  upwards  of  four  hundred  pounds. 


io6       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


How  did  such  a  thing  happen  ?  It  happened  because 
the  habits  of  the  Rev.  Samuel  Spendall  were  egregiously 
lacking  in  the  sense  of  common  honesty.  In  the  village  he 
owed  money  to  the  butcher  and  the  baker  and  other  small 
tradesmen  ;  these  bills  were  never  paid  :  the  accounts  ran 
on  from  week  to  week  and  month  to  month  ;  but  the  Rev. 
Samuel  Spendall  had  no  scruple  about  spending  money  on 
his  own  pleasures.  The  neighbouring  town  had  attractions, 
and  he  found  reasons  and  excuses  for  visiting  it  with  more 
than  necessary  frequency  ;  and  when  he  did  so,  it  pleased 
him  to  have  one  or  more  members  of  his  family  with  him. 
His  dignity  required  that  they  should  travel  first  class. 
Arrived  at  the  town,  there  were  shops  where  money  could 
be  spent  :  there  were  also  attractive  entertainments — a 
concert,  or  a  play.  Why  not  stay  and  enjoy  ourselves  .'' 
It  is  true  that  there  is  no  late  train  to  take  us  home  ;  but 
there  are  hotels  ;  and,  after  all,  it  is  more  comfortable  to 
sleep  in  town  than  to  endure  a  long,  slow,  cold,  late  journey 
at  night.  In  the  entanglement  of  such  an  attractive  pro- 
gramme the  bills  of  the  local  tradesmen  were  forgotten, 
or,  with  the  happy  optimism  of  the  impecunious,  they  were 
waived  aside  as  irrelevant  and  inconvenient.  So  from  week 
to  week  the  habit  of  unconscientious  heedlessness  went  on. 
Bills  were  ignored,  debt  accumulated,  and  the  one  person 
who  was  never  worried  about  it  was  the  debtor  himself. 

Debt  is  worse  than  drink  in  this  way.  Drink  has  a 
habit  of  bringing  a  man  to  book  :  the  night's  debauch  or 
the  day's  excess  is  followed  by  some  physical  warning  ; 
disagreeable  pains  in  head  or  elsewhere  act  as  warning 
angels  ;  but  debt  can  be  contracted,  and  no  physical  mentor 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES  107 


gives  warning.  The  morning  after  the  night  of  extrava- 
gance breaks  as  cloudlessly  as  though  there  were  no  trouble 
in  the  world  :  the  head  does  not  throb  ;  the  sight  of  food 
does  not  repel  ;  there  are  still  things  to  be  enjoyed  ;  the 
newspaper  tells  of  some  new  attraction  at  the  theatre  or 
the  music  hall.  As  for  the  little  bits  of  blue  and  white 
paper  which  chronicle  the  debts,  they  can  be  put  away. 
We  will  attend  to  them  later  on  :  we  will  have  a  regular 
business  day  and  clear  up  all  the  accounts  ;  but  not  to-day. 
A  famous  pianist  or  actor  is  visiting  the  neighbouring  town  : 
we  really  ought  not  to  miss  the  opportunity  ;  and  so,  the 
money  which  ought  to  go  to  the  butcher  or  baker  or  the 
laundry  woman,  is  spent  in  travelling  first  class,  listening 
to  concert  or  play,  and  tipping  the  waiters  at  the  hotel. 

Meanwhile  the  parson's  influence  in  the  parish  has  been 
deprived  of  all  moral  value.  The  people  might  condone  a 
lapse  into  intemperance  :  to  be  fond  of  a  glass  is  a  human 
frailty  ;  it  is  understood  on  all  hands,  and  a  man  in  his 
cups  becomes  genial,  sympathetic  and  confidential.  If  the 
parishioners  occasionally  shake  the  head,  or  wink  the  eye, 
or  make  a  little  tossing  movement  towards  their  mouths, 
they  say  with  honest  feeling,  "Vicar's  not  a  bad  sort." 
They  can  tolerate  a  little  human  weakness  ;  but  they  have 
not  the  same  kindly  feeling  towards  a  vicar  who  is  always 
slipping  off  to  town,  leaving  the  parish  unvisited  and  his 
bills  unpaid,  while,  as  they  express  it,  he  does  himself 
well. 

Debt,  or  the  habit  which  leads  to  debt,  is  more  difficult 
to  deal  with  than  even  drink.  A  man  can  so  easily  deceive 
himself  about  his  debts  :  he  can  mislead  others,  and  he  can 


io8        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


readily  ignore  or  adroitly  postpone  the  day  of  reckoning. 
The  habit  grows,  and  it  slowly  yet  surely  demoralizes  the 
whole  character.  Hard  facts  are  put  out  of  sight ;  sanguine 
estimates  of  expenditure  are  formed  ;  lies  are  accepted  as 
truths.  Perhaps  means  of  raising  money  are  resorted  to 
which  in  days  of  honour  and  honesty  would  have  been 
disdained  :  begging  letters  are  found  to  bring  in  a  per- 
centage of  profit.  I  remember  once  receiving  a  letter  from 
a  good  and  kindly  lady,  calling  my  attention  to  the  sad 
straits  into  which  a  vicar  in  my  diocese  had  fallen.  The 
letter  hinted  in  a  gentle  fashion  that  it  was  really  discredit- 
able to  the  diocese  and  its  bishop  that  any  clergyman  should 
be  exposed  to  such  hardship  and  privation.  Dear,  kind 
soul !  she  accepted  the  word  of  the  vicar  ;  but  we  knew 
better  :  the  vicar  was  making  a  trade  of  begging  letters.  I 
asked  some  business  men  to  investigate  the  matter  :  their 
report  was  that  the  vicar  was  utterly  untrustworthy.  The 
story  which  he  told  to  account  for  his  debts  was  almost 
entirely  untrue.  He  was  trading  on  falsehood  and  obtaining 
money  on  false  pretences  ;  but  he  was  skilful  enough  to 
keep  bankruptcy  at  arm's  length  while  weak  and  good- 
natured  people  kept  him  supplied  with  funds,  which  only 
served  to  encourage  him  in  his  career  of  deception.  How, 
it  will  be  asked,  how  did  such  a  man  get  a  benefice  ?  He 
was  appointed  by  a  lay  patron,  who  never  took  the  trouble 
of  asking  advice  or  seeking  information,  which  probably  the 
bishop  could  readily  have  afforded. 

I  have  told  the  stories  of  some  clergymen  who,  when 
put  to  the  test,  failed  in  the  maintenance  of  their  honour. 
Happily  they  were  exceptions  :  they  gave  way,  when  tested, 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES  109 


to  the  spirit  of  the  world,  I  do  not  like  to  leave  these 
stories  about  clergymen  without  adding  that  my  experience 
has  also  made  me  acquainted  with  lines  of  conduct  which 
appear  to  be  acceptable  even  to  laymen  who  might  be  called 
men  of  integrity.  As  illustration  of  what  I  mean,  here  are 
two  stories  which  set  up  a  contrast  between  two  different 
views  of  public  duty. 

The  first  was  told  me  by  a  man  who  had  been  a  Member 
of  Parliament.  It  was  a  tale  of  his  own  experience.  Two 
lines  of  railroad  were  proposed,  and  parliamentary  sanction 
was  sought.  The  proposed  lines  both  ran  through  a  certain 
property  on  their  way  to  London,  shall  we  say  ?  The  owner 
of  the  property  opposed  the  enterprise,  and  employed  counsel 
to  state  his  objections  and,  of  course,  to  claim  compensation. 
It  will  be  well  to  give  names  to  the  two  companies  which 
sought  for  legal  approval  :  one  we  may  be  allowed  to  call 
the  London  and  Fudlington  Railway,  the  other  the  London 
and  Pudlington.  When  the  parliamentary  committee  met, 
counsel  appeared  on  behalf  of  (say)  Mr.  Skimpole,  and 
opposed  the  Bill  on  the  ground  that  it  would  seriously 
damage  the  property.  The  committee,  having  heard  the 
arguments,  assigned  in  compensation  ^30,000.  The  next 
day,  when  the  Bill  for  the  other  line  of  railway  was  under 
consideration,  counsel  appeared  on  behalf  of  Mr.  Skim- 
pole to  oppose  the  Bill.  A  member  of  the  committee 
asked  whether  Mr.  Skimpole's  case  had  not  been  disposed 
of  on  the  previous  day,  when  compensation  of  ^30,000  was 
given  ?  Counsel  disclaimed  any  legal  knowledge  of  such 
a  matter  :  this  affair  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  London 
and  Fudlington  line  :  he  was  solely  concerned  that  day  with 


no       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 

the  loss  which  would  be  occasioned  to  his  client  by  the 
London  and  Pudlington  line.  After  consultation,  the  case 
was  settled  by  assigning  once  more  ;^30,ooo  to  Mr.  Skim- 
pole.  And  then  Mr,  Skimpole  sold  his  property  for  a 
goodly  sum  of  money,  having  called  attention  to  the  great 
advantage  which  the  property  possessed  as  being  in  the 
immediate  neighbourhood  of  two  lines  of  railway. 

As  I  heard  this  story  I  felt  that  this  was  not  a  story  of 
justice  or  right ;  and  I  ventured  to  say  that  it  seemed  to 
me  to  be  a  case  of  an  intolerable  wrong  done,  and  an  unfair 
advantage  taken  of  the  circumstances.  The  narrator,  how- 
ever, did  not  agree  with  me  :  he  remarked  nonchalantly 
that  it  was  not  unfair,  as  a  man  had  a  right  to  take  whatever 
the  law  gave  him. 

My  heart  sank,  for  I  thought  that  if  our  consciences 
were  only  operative  by  the  maxims  of  law  it  would  be  an 
ill  day  for  the  standards  of  public  morality  ;  and  there  came 
to  my  mind  another  story — and  this  is  my  second  story — 
in  which,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  a  nobler  and  more  magnani- 
mous conscientiousness  was  displayed.  It  was  a  story  my 
father  used  to  tell. 

In  the  early  days  of  railway  enterprise  there  lived  a 
certain  nobleman  not  far  from  London.  When  the  railway 
— probably  the  London  and  North- Western  Railway — was 
desirous  of  making  its  way  to  London,  it  proposed  to  run 
through  this  nobleman's  property.  The  nobleman  was  full 
of  wrath.  He  hated  railways  :  why  should  this  horrible 
desecration  of  his  property  take  place  .''  He  would  have 
no  dealings  with  such  a  business  :  he  opposed  the  line  as 
a  man  full  of  pride  and  prejudice  might.    In  the  end  his 


CLERICAL  PECCADILLOES  in 

objections  were  overruled,  and  a  sum  of  money  was  given 
him  in  compensation.  Time  went  on,  and  houses  began 
to  spring  up  near  the  railway  station,  and  the  land  of  the 
nobleman  rose  in  value.  One  day  he  said  to  his  son  :  "  I 
was  wrong  about  the  railway:  I  thought  it  would  injure  the 
property,  but  it  has  improved  it  greatly.  This  is  surprising ; 
and  I  see  that,  so  far  from  being,  as  I  feared,  a  loser,  I  have 
been  a  gainer  through  the  railway  ;  and  this  being  so,  I  do 
not  think,  that  I  am  entitled  to  keep  the  money  which  was 
given  me  in  compensation  for  a  supposed  loss  which  has  not 
occurred."  The  nobleman  acted  on  his  words,  and  returned 
the  compensation  money  to  the  railway  company.  This 
was  the  story  :  I  cannot  vouch  for  its  truth.  It  would  be 
interesting  to  know  whether  any  record  of  such  a  transac- 
tion exists  in  the  historical  pages  of  the  London  and  North- 
Western  Railway  Company,  if  that  was  the  company 
concerned. 

At  any  rate,  it  stands  as  a  story  in  contrast  to  the  other  ; 
and  I  think  that  I  would  rather  live  and  die  with  a  con- 
science like  that  of  the  prejudiced  old  peer  than  with  a 
conscience  touched  by  the  smarter  methods  of  Mr.  Skim- 
pole.  It  may,  I  think,  be  said  with  truth,  that  a  man  whose 
life  is  regulated  by  the  letter  of  the  law  is  yet  a  long  way 
off  from  that  kingdom  of  heaven  which  is  within  ;  unless 
life  is  governed  by  some  principle  higher  than  can  be 
expressed  in  any  code,  he  is  still  a  stranger  in  the  world  of 
good. 


SKETCHES   OF    PARSONS   WITH  A 
MORAL 


The  clergyman  of  the  stage  has  too  often  a  fixed  type  ; 
but  clergymen  are  of  various  types  :  their  variety  is  as 
marked  as  that  of  any  other  profession.  There  is  the 
parson  who  dresses  like  a  groom  or  a  jockey,  who  looks 
so  unclerical  that  people  of  highly  ecclesiastical  conven- 
tionality declare  that  "  they  don't  like  him  because  he  is 
so  unclerical."  Kind  reader,  who  may  be  tempted  to  echo 
this  verdict — remember  the  warning,  so  wise  and  kindly 
and  needful  :  "  Judge  not  by  the  appearance,  but  judge 
righteous  judgment."  I  utter  this  warning  the  more 
readily  in  the  present  case,  because  1  can  recall  clergymen 
whose  appearance  would  most  certainly  have  been  described 
as  unclerical;  and  yet  they  were  among  the  best  workers 
I  have  known.  Here  is  a  man  who  dresses  like  a  sports- 
man :  his  only  concession  to  clerical  attire  is  the  white 
tie  ;  but  what  a  good,  practical,  kindly  parson  he  is.  He 
runs  the  parish  like  a  guardian  :  he  has  noticed  the  illness 
which  is  so  prevalent  :  he  has  traced  it  to  the  doubtful 
and  indifferent  water  supply  :  he  has  taken  prompt  action, 
and  now  a  fine,  wholesome  and  abundant  water  supply  has 
been  provided.  He  has  noticed  that  the  cluster  of  houses 
by  the  railway  station  is  growing  in  numbers  :  a  new  town- 


SKETCHES  OF  PARSONS  WITH  A  MORAL  113 


ship  is  being  formed  ;  his  energy  meets  the  emergency, 
and  now  a  comely  and  hospitable  church  stands  conveni- 
ently placed  among  the  increasing  population.  There  is  no 
affectation  about  this  parson.  He  belongs  to  no  party  in 
the  Church  :  he  offends  no  one's  taste  either  by  unctuous 
phraseology  or  sacerdotal  pretensions  :  he  is  a  man  among 
men.  You  may  wish  that  he  had  a  more  reverent  manner, 
or  that  his  spirituality  were  more  apparent  ;  but  he  cannot 
affect  a  role  or  a  pose  :  he  must  be  just  himself.  His 
temperament  is  practical  :  he  is  honest  and  energetic  :  he 
sees  what  the  place  and  the  people  seem  to  need,  and 
he  loses  no  time  and  spares  no  pains  to  supply  them. 

This  man  may  not  be  your  favourite  type  of  parson, 
or  mine  ;  but  he  is  a  man  who  is  filling  his  post  in  a  way 
which  wins  respect,  if  not  affection.  He  will  be  remem- 
bered with  a  regret  which  will  have  a  note  of  tenderness 
in  it.  "  He  was  a  right  good  sort,  he  was."  This  is  what 
you  will  hear  ;  and  the  speaker  will  turn  his  face  away,  as 
one  who  fears  to  let  even  a  passing  emotion  be  noticed. 

-Here  is  another  unclerical  parson.  You  might  take 
him  for  a  groom,  out  in  attendance  on  his  master  on  some 
important  duty,  for  his  white  tie  seems  to  harmonize  with 
the  groomlike  costume.  He  is  clean  and  neat — almost 
spruce  in  appearance.  His  church  is  a  model  of  cleanliness 
and  comeliness  :  the  service  is  reverent  :  decent  appoint- 
ments are  noticeable  everywhere  :  flowers  appear,  fresh 
and  various,  as  decorations  suited  to  the  seasons.  As  the 
church  is  well  served,  so  the  people  are  well  visited.  Classes 
and  mothers'  meetings  are  regular.  Among  his  brother 
clergy  this  parson  is  regarded  as  a  man  who  brings  to 


114       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 

their  discussions  a  plain,  incisive,  common-sense  view  of 
things.  His  words  are  like  a  fresh  breeze,  and  the  heavy, 
clammy  atmosphere  of  the  clerical  meeting  is  refined  and 
clarified  after  he  has  spoken.  The  parsons  heave  a  sigh 
of  content  :  he  has  had  the  courage  to  say  what  was 
glimmering  in  the  background  of  some  minds,  and  all 
feel  that  the  tension  has  been  relieved. 

Here  again  is  another  unclerically  garbed  parson.  He 
dresses  as  if  he  wished  to  be  mistaken  for  a  jockey  :  gaiters 
and  leggings,  a  rough  suit  with  brown  checks  upon  it  : 
a  grey  necktie  fastened  with  a  sailor  knot — a  stick  in  his 
hand.  So  like  a  jockey  he  is  that  you  almost  picture  him 
on  the  roadside  sucking  the  knob  of  his  stick.  And  yet 
there  is  in  him  a  gentleness  of  devotion  and  a  simpHcity 
of  spirit  which  win  the  hearts  of  those  who  know  him  ; 
and  his  public  ministrations  are  full  of  verve,  intelligence 
and  true  devoutness.  What  care  he  takes  in  the  rendering 
of  the  service  !  What  power  he  throws  into  his  reading 
and  preaching  !  He  reads  the  lesson,  and  you  are  com- 
pelled to  listen  :  he  makes  the  words  seize  and  grasp  you  : 
you  realize  the  moral  force  of  the  stories  of  the  old  Book 
which  went  to  form  our  national  character.  He  preaches, 
and  you  know  that  thought  and  study  lie  behind  the 
sermon,  but  it  is  not  pedantic  :  there  is  no  affectation  of 
learning  about  it,  there  is  no  assumption  of  pious  man- 
nerism :  there  is  moral  earnestness  and  intellectual  energy. 
You  are  listening  to  a  man  with  a  message. 

And  in  his  parish,  what  is  he  ?  He  is  the  kindliest  of 
men,  but  he  is  quite  unconventional.  He  mingles  among 
the  showmen  who  come  round  at  the  annual  fair  time  ; 
he  knows  them  :  he  can  talk  with  them — joke  with  them  ; 


SKETCHES  OF  PARSONS  WITH  A  MORAL  115 


but  he  gathers  them  for  some  special  service  :  he  remem- 
bers that  they  are  people  with  souls,  and  he  brings  religion 
to  them.  How  ready  he  is  in  emergencies  !  Is  a  sick 
person  in  need  of  night  watching  ?  He  will  give  his 
night  without  grudging.  Is  a  young  man  troublesome, 
inclined  to  be  dissipated  .''  He  will  devote  himself  to  his  case, 
visit  him,  travel  with  him,  and  watch  over  him  with  constant 
vigilance,  while  maintaining  a  happy  spirit  of  comradeship. 

Yes,  he  is  eccentric  :  people  do  not  like  this  trait.  He 
is  a  preacher  of  singular  power,  he  is  prompt  and  vigorous 
in  action  :  a  man  of  wide  and  tender  sympathies  :  but  his 
good  qualities  are  concealed  under  a  cloak  of  oddity, 
and  though  his  church  is  full  and  his  sermons  are  effective, 
a  conventional  public  fail  to  understand  him.  But  what 
of  this  .''  Beneath  the  strange  garb  and  unusual  modes  of 
speech  there  lurks  genuine  goodness  and  real  power 
of  Christian  influence. 

Or,  here  is  another — a  different  type  altogether.  His 
fancy  runs  to  an  attire  which  emphasizes  his  calling. 
He  goes  about  in  his  cassock,  and  a  black  cord  with 
tassels  encircles  his  waist.  If  he  visits  his  people,  he  visits 
them  in  his  cassock  :  if  they  visit  him,  they  find  him  in 
his  cassock  ;  his  parishioners  pretend  to  believe  that  he 
sleeps  in  his  cassock.  People  of  strong  anti-Roman  views 
look  at  him  askance  :  they  distrust  a  man  who  seems  by 
his  costume  to  be  flaunting  sacerdotal  claims  unblushingly 
before  their  eyes.  Some  people  remark  on  his  rubicund 
countenance,  and  hint  that  if  the  joys  of  domestic  life  (he  is 
a  bachelor)  are  denied  to  him,  he  finds  some  compensation 
in  what  they  are  pleased  to  call  the  pleasures  of  the  table. 
Yet,  as  a  fact,  he  is  abstemious  and  an  example  of  self- 


ii6       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


denial.  He  gives  liberally  to  the  needy  :  he  stints  himself : 
he  is  courageously  outspoken  to  rough  and  idle  men  and 
lads.  He  is  sympathetic — tenderly  so — to  the  weak  and  the 
fallen  ;  his  personal  piety  is  as  genuine  as  his  parochial 
devotion.  If  he  is  over  careful,  as  some  think,  about 
external  or  ceremonial  points,  the  deep  reality  of  his 
religion  gives  men  confidence  that  with  him  mere  exter- 
nalism  will  never  choke  the  unquestioned  spirituality  of 
his  faith.  As  we  learn  to  know  him,  we  feel  inclined 
to  repeat  again  the  much-needed  caution  :  "  Judge  not 
according  to  appearance,  but  judge  righteous  judgment." 

May  I  place  another  character  upon  the  stage  ?  Here 
is  a  parson,  neat  but  not  dandyish  in  his  dress  ;  after  its 
fashion  it  clearly  indicates  his  profession  ;  he  wears  a  coat 
which  is  ecclesiastical  in  outline  ;  his  white  tie  advertises 
his  calling  without  any  hesitation  or  concealment.  He  is  a 
little  stiff  in  manner,  prim,  if  not  pedantic,  in  speech.  He 
never  condescends  to  slang  :  1  cannot  imagine  his  ever 
saying  to  any  friend  :  "  How  are  you,  old  chap  ?  "  His 
greeting  would  be  strictly  polite — perhaps  chilling  in  effect. 
You  never  know  if  he  cares  for  you.  You  have  an  inward 
though  unaccepted  belief  that  he  has  suspicions  of  your 
orthodoxy.  You  know  that  he  would  be  inclined  to  find 
lurking  heresy  in  your  words,  and  you  are  conscious  that  a 
general  spirit  of  disapproval  of  modern  habits  pervades  his 
outlook  upon  life.  Frankly,  he  does  not  attract  people  to 
him.  Mere  goodness  of  nature  would  not  conciliate  him  ; 
he  distrusts  such  a  thing,  because  of  the  established  badness 
of  human  nature.  It  is  easy  to  see  how  such  a  man  might 
repel  you,  and  how  readily  we  might  class  him  among  those 
pharisaic  people  who  live  in  a  little  select  circle  of  their 


SKETCHES  OF  PARSONS  WITH  A  MORAL  117 


own,  and  condemn  uncharitably  the  general  world  around 
them.  And  yet  how  wrong  we  should  be.  Learn  to  know 
this  man  better,  and  you  find  that  his  apparent  coldness  is 
the  result  of  constitutional  shyness  ;  that  the  reserve  which 
marks  his  manner  is  not  a  condemnation  of  others,  but  a 
distrust  of  himself.  His  ideal  of  Christian  life  is  very  high. 
He  earnestly  desires  that  his  mouth  shall  not  offend,  and  he, 
therefore,  often — too  often — keeps  silence  from  good  words, 
and  even  kind  words  ;  for  he  distrusts  impulse,  and  believes 
in  a  chastened  habit  of  life.  You  enter  the  house,  and, 
although  there  is  an  atmosphere  of  restraint  in  the  family, 
you  soon  discover  how  intense  and  practical  is  their 
religious  life.  One  child — a  daughter — is  a  missionary 
abroad  ;  another — a  son — is  doing  good  work  in  a  slum 
parish,  and  has  broken  down  after  an  illness  contracted  in 
visiting  incessantly  among  cases  of  an  infectious  epidemic. 
The  conversation  in  the  home  is  serene,  restrained,  culti- 
vated ;  it  does  not  include  literature  in  its  widest  sense  ; 
but  the  family  know  Cowper's  poems  as  well  as  Milton  ; 
they  are  well  acquainted  with  the  Pilgrim  s  Progress  and 
Wilberforce's  Practical  View  ;  they  are  familiar  with  hymns, 
especially  with  those  which  were  circulated  and  sung  before 
the  Oxford  movement.  It  is  a  home  of  genuine  piety 
which  we  have  entered,  and  you  leave  it  with  the  conviction 
that  charity  bids  us  to  know  all  before  we  venture  to  form 
a  hasty  and  ignorant  judgment  on  any  man. 

Yet  another  sketch  I  must  give.  Here  again  is  a  man, 
greatly  respected  ;  he  is  looked  upon  as  a  latitudinarim 
iconoclast  ;  he  setms  to  have  no  reverence  for  established 
usage  or  historic  beliefs.  His  very  air  in  church  seems  to 
be  a  protest  against  any  attempt  to  secure  a  reverent  or 


ii8        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


decorous  order  in  worship.  His  surplice  is  flung  untidily- 
round  his  shoulders  ;  a  precarious  button  holds  it  together 
with  doubtful  success  ;  beneath  it,  and  in  the  long,  gaping 
front  of  the  surplice,  you  see  his  everyday  costume  ;  no 
cassock  gives  symmetry  or  conciliating  reserve  to  the 
outline  of  his  figure.  In  his  movements  he  is  quick,  and 
apparently  impatient  ;  he  seems  to  disapprove  of  any 
lingering  devotion  when  once  the  stated  service  is  over. 
He  offends  people  by  a  certain  slatternly  manner  of  con- 
ducting worship.  He  offends  or  frightens  them  when  he 
preaches  ;  he  is  eager,  voluble,  and  deeply  interested  in  his 
sermon,  but  he  is  heedless  of  the  intellectual  capacity  of  his 
congregation.  He  has  studied  much  and  long  ;  he  has 
his  own  phraseology  ;  but  it  is  not  a  language  understanded 
of  the  people.  He  flings  out  his  thoughts  with  burning 
zeal,  but  they  are  either  not  understood  or  hopelessly 
misunderstood  by  his  hearers  ;  in  his  absorbing  eagerness 
to  say  what  he  feels  deeply,  he  is  often  incoherent  ;  his 
utterances  are  taken  away  piecemeal  to  their  homes  by  his 
auditors  ;  some  phrase,  in  their  judgment,  reeks  of  heresy  ; 
it  seems  to  deny  or  invalidate  ancient  beliefs.  They  feel  as 
though  they  were  robbed  of  their  Christian  inheritance. 

And  yet,  here  again,  shall  we  visit  his  home  ?  What  a 
revelation,  and  what  an  explanation  of  all  that  has  been  so 
puzzling  meets  us  here.  Here  we  find  a  man  of  simple 
piety  and  singular  guilelessness  of  spirit,  ordering  his 
household  with  apostolic  care  and  evangelical  zeal.  To  be 
present  at  family  prayers  is  to  realize  that  here  is  a  life 
guided  by  the  love  of  Christ,  devoted  to  His  service,  full 
of  faith  in  the  kingdom  which  our  Lord  opened  to  all 
believers.    And  then  we  realize   that    his    preaching  is 


SKETCHES  OF  PARSONS  WITH  A  MORAL  119 


intended  to  make  plain  a  gospel  which  he  thinks  has  been 
obscured  by  unfortunate  after-glosses  ;  that  he  is  trying  to 
speak  the  truth  that  he  loves  ;  that  the  words  he  uses  are 
quite  innocent  of  heresy  when  judged  by  his  own  range  of 
language,  and  that  a  certain  unusualness  of  phrase  has  given 
rise  to  misunderstandings  ;  that  what  he  sought  to  say  was 
what  the  people  longed  to  hear  ;  but  that  differences  of  speech 
were  creating  troublesome  mistakes.  I  can  imagine  that  the 
devout  orthodox  clergyman  who  by  reason  of  popular  report 
thought  him  a  heretic,  might  well  feel  after  a  night  spent  under 
his  roof  that  this  man  was  a  good  Christian  man,  earnest  in 
soul,  but  entirely  misunderstood.  And  so  again,  the  guest 
would  learn,  as  we  might,  to  judge  nothing  before  the 
time. 

If  I  add  another  sketch,  I  do  so  because  there  is  a  touch 
of  humour  about  the  parson  whom  1  now  describe.  He 
dresses  in  ordinary  clerical  attire  ;  you  know  that  he  is  not 
marked  by  over-scrupulous  ecclesiasticism.  He  goes  about 
his  parish,  and  as  he  talks  you  feel  that  he  is  a  bit  of  a 
humorist.  He  observes  his  people  ;  he  notes  their  little 
tricks  of  manner,  and  their  characteristic  intonation  of 
voice  ;  he  can  not  only  talk  to  them,  but  he  can  tell  them 
how  they  talk.  He  is  slovenly  in  church,  as  though  he 
feared  that  reverence  might  end  in  superstition.  He  reads 
the  service  with  emphasis — and  the  emphasis  is  all  his  own ; 
it  indicates — whether  you  like  it  or  not — it  indicates  thought. 
He  preaches,  and  no  one  can  doubt  his  zeal,  but  his 
language  belongs  to  the  last  generation,  and  to  the  people 
of  to-day  it  sounds  like  the  repetition  of  empty  phrases  ; 
words  and  collocations  of  words,  which  once  meant  living 
truth  and  stirred  men's  souls,  have  passed  out  of  currency  ; 


I20       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


the  spiritual  force  has  evaporated.  The  people  listen  with 
laudable  patience,  but  they  nod  to  one  another  when  they 
meet  outside,  and  agree  that  the  sermon  was  dull  and 
difficult  to  follow.  Yet  at  times  the  latent  humour  of  the 
preacher  bubbles  up  in  the  sermon.  Once,  for  example, 
when  preaching  on  the  text,  "  If  thou  knewest  the  gift  of 
God,"  he  ventured  on  some  interesting  examples  of  missed 
opportunities.  "  A  man,"  he  said,  "  owned  land  in  Australia  ; 
he  grew  tired  of  it  ;  he  sold  it.  He  had  hardly  returned  to 
England  when,  behold  !  gold  was  discovered  on  the  property 
he  had  sold.  If  he  had  known  !  I  myself,"  he  continued, 
"  once  held  a  picture  in  my  hands  ;  I  was  afraid  to  buy  it  : 
I  didn't.  Shortly  after  that  very  picture  was  sold  at 
Christie's  for  a  very  large  sum  of  money.  If  I  had 
known  ! "  We  can  imagine  the  spirit  of  mirth  which  such 
examples  provoked  ;  but  the  decorous  countenances  in  the 
church  showed  no  sign  of  the  amusement  which  was  gener- 
ally felt.  The  preacher  did  not  mean  to  be  humorous  ; 
but  I  think  his  people  knew  that  the  humour  of  his 
nature  was  ready  to  break  out,  almost  without  realizing  it 
himself.  He  had  a  gift  of  smart  rejoinder,  which  was 
welcome  to  those  who  heard  it,  if  not  pleasing  to  the  one 
who  had  provoked.  Thus  it  happened  that  a  man  who  had 
made  a  fortune  in  the  colonies  returned  home  and  bought 
himself  some  property  in  the  neighbourhood.  This  roused 
the  indignation  of  a  pedantic  theorist,  who  denounced  the 
purchase  of  the  property  as  an  outrage  on  the  rights  of 
others — an  injury,  a  wrong,  a  robbery  ! 

"  And  why  should  not  the  man  buy  a  little  land  and 
settle  down  for  the  closing  years  of  his  life  Has  he  not  a 
right  to  spend  his  money  as  he  pleases  .'' " 


SKETCHES  OF  PARSONS  WITH  A  MORAL  121 


"  No,  he  has  no  right  to  land.  The  land  belongs  to  God, 
and  no  one  man  has  a  right  to  it,  even  by  purchase." 

The  vicar  looked  at  this  advocate  of  extreme  socialistic 
views,  and  then  said,  with  seeming  irrelevance,  "  That's  a 
very  nice  coat  you  are  wearing." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other,  "  and  good  stuff",  too  ;  all  good, 
pure  wool." 

"  You  have  no  right  to  wear  it  or  own  it,"  said  the  vicar. 

"  Why  not   "  said  the  man  ;  "  it's  bought  and  paid  for." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  the  vicar,  "  however  that  may  be,  you 
have  no  right  to  own  it  ;  it  is  stuff"  which  belongs  to  God, 
just  as  the  land  does  ;  the  sheep  belong  to  God  ;  the 
psalmist  tells  us  God's  claim  :  '  Every  beast  is  mine,  and  so 
are  the  cattle  upon  a  thousand  hills  :  the  whole  world  is 
mire  and  the  fulness  thereof.'  " 

Such  was  the  vicar,  with  his  humour  and  readiness — 
a  man  mercurial,  impulsive,  imitative  ;  bearing  his  life  as 
a  disappointment,  easily  depressed,  annoyed  and  almost 
angered  to  find,  after  some  thirty  years  of  work,  that  his 
people  knew  so  little  of  their  Bibles.  Had  he  not  been 
expounding  it  in  their  ears  for  a  generation  ?  Was  it  not 
heartbreaking  to  find  that  they  were  ignorant  of  some  of  the 
most  obvious  matters  of  Bible  story  ?  Rumour  said  that 
disappointment  killed  him  ;  but  I  think  that  his  people, 
even  now,  miss  the  tall,  black-coated  figure,  the  ruddy  face, 
the  white  hair,  the  pause  on  the  road,  the  jerky  speech,  the 
quaint  remark,  the  good-humoured  raillery.  He  was  the 
parson,  and  whatever  else,  he  was,  as  they  said,  "  a 
character,"  and  a  character  is  not  easily  forgotten. 

But  this,  let  me  add,  is  no  reason  why  a  man  should 
attempt  to  be  a  character  ;  eccentricity  which  is  assumed  is 


122       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


always  ineffective.  "  That  is  lovely,"  says  Dante,  "  which 
is  most  distinctive"  ;  but  shams  are  not  distinctive. 

BISHOPS  AND  BISHOPS 

The  days  when  I  first  made  acquaintance  with  the 
NoVthern  Convocation  stand  out  in  my  memory  with  a 
special  interest  or  even  charm.  The  Upper  House  then 
consisted  of  the  Primate,  Archbishop  Thomson,  the  Bishop 
of  Durham  was  Dr.  Lightfoot,  the  Bishop  of  Carlisle  was 
Dr.  Harvey  Goodwin,  the  Bishop  of  Manchester  was  Dr. 
Eraser,  the  Bishop  of  Newcastle  was  Dr.  Ernest  Wilberforce, 
the  Bishop  of  Liverpool  was  Dr.  Ryle,  and  the  Bishop  of 
Sodor  and  Man  was  Dr.  Rowley  Hill.  We  were  all  enter- 
tained with  large-hearted  and  unstinting  hospitality  by 
the  Archbishop  at  Bishopthorpe.  The  days  were  given  to 
business,  but  in  the  evenings  at  Bishopthorpe  there  was  a 
relaxation  from  severer  topics.  An  atmosphere  of  social 
kindliness  invited  a  happy  freedom  :  it  became  natural  to 
be  gay,  and  it  was  admissible  to  allow  mirth  to  have  some 
scope  in  the  intercourse.  The  result  was  that  quips  and 
smart  sayings,  humorous  tales  and  witticisms  were  welcome. 
There  was  no  affected  solemnity,  and  no  unwritten  code  of 
manners  which  prohibited  a  smile.  Decorous  dulness  was 
not  considered  the  essential  attendant  of  piety.  The 
religious  spirit  might  flow  through  natural  channels,  and 
laughter  was  a  gift  of  God. 

Dr.  Rowley  Hill  was  the  wit  of  the  party.  He  had  the 
quick,  happy  irrelevancy  of  fancy  which  could  detach  itself 
from  the  immediate  topic,  and  fasten  upon  some  humorous 
aspect.    When  he  urged  some  friend  to  visit  the  Isle  of 


SKETCHES  OF  PARSONS  WITH  A  MORAL  123 


Man,  the  friend  objected  that  the  sea  and  its  consequent 
malaise  would  be  too  much  for  him,  so  he  could  never 
go  by  boat.  "  Oh,  well  then,  why  don't  you  come  by 
Barrow  ? "  said  the  Bishop. 

Among  tales  told  by  Bishop  Rowley  Hill,  I  recall  one 
which  he  told  with  great  enjoyment.  The  omnibus  was  at 
the  hotel  door  about  to  convey  passengers  to  the  station  ; 
the  passengers  were  taking  their  seats,  and  "  Boots "  was 
hovering  about  expectantly,  the  last  chance  of  a  "  tip  "  had 
come.  Among  the  passengers  was  a  Frenchman,  who  had 
just  taken  his  place  near  the  door  of  the  omnibus.  With 
ingratiating  and  deprecating  air,  Boots  drew  near  and, 
tendering  his  cap,  said  in  an  insinuating  and  suggestive 
way,  "  Remember  Boots,  sir." 

"  Vat  you  say   "  said  the  Frenchman. 

"  Remember  Boots,  sir,"  was  the  reply. 

The  Frenchman  looked  blank  and  puzzled,  and  again 
asked,  "  Vat  vas  dat  you  say — Remember  Boots  " 

"  Yes,  remember  Boots,"  said  the  eager  Boots. 

Whereupon  the  Frenchman  deliberately  turned  the 
handle  of  the  door,  stepped  in  dignified  fashion  into  the 
road,  and  flinging  his  arms  round  Boots'  neck,  exclaimed  with 
fervour,  "  Oh,  Boots,  1  vill  remember  you  as  long  as  I  lif  !  " 

One  scene  I  recall.  We  were  all  in  the  hospitable 
omnibus,  which  was  taking  us  from  Bishopthorpe  into 
York,  for  the  morning  meeting  of  Convocation.  As  we 
journeyed,  I  read  to  the  Archbishop  and  my  brother 
Bishops,  Mark  Twain's  tale,  entitled  "Parting  with  the 
Family  Pet."  The  effect  of  the  story  was  just  delightful. 
I  suppose  we  were  all  just  in  the  mood  to  enjoy  some 
innocent    fooling.    Bishop    Fraser  was    happily  amused. 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


Bishop  Harvey  Goodwin  appreciated  the  humour  of  the 
tale.  The  Archbishop,  unwilling  to  give  way  too  much, 
was  yet  moved  to  irresistible  mirth.  Bishop  Lightfoot 
fairly  abandoned  himself  to  the  spirit  and  movement  of  the 
narrative,  and  laughed  till  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 
They  were  happy,  brotherly  days  which  we  spent  at  Bishop- 
thorpe,  and  the  genial  tone  of  them  was  refreshing.  It 
seemed  to  unlock  the  gates  of  dignified  reserve  ;  we  could 
be  ourselves,  and  let  natural  emotion  have  free  play,  I  can 
now  picture  Bishop  Harvey  Goodwin  passing  on  to  us  an 
anecdote  which  he  had  read  in  some  newspaper.  It  told  of 
a  conversation  between  two  sailors.  "  Mate,"  said  one  of 
them,  "  what  is  a  hanthem  that  I  hear  folks  speaking 
about.?"  "A  hanthem,  Bill.?"  said  the  other.  "Well, 
it's  like  this  :  if  I  was  to  say  to  you,  '  Bill,  hand  me  that 
marling  spike,'  well,  that  wouldn't  be  a  hanthem  ;  but  if 
I  was  to  say  to  you,  '  Bill — Bill — hand  me,  hand  me,  Bill, 
hand,  hand  me  that — hand  me.  Bill,  that  marling,  marling. 
Bill — that  marling  spike,  hand  me.  Bill,  that  spike — marling 
Bill  spike — hand  me  that  marling,  marling  spike,'  why,  that 
would  be  a  hanthem."  The  anecdote  is  trite  enough  :  the 
keen  enjoyment  with  which  it  was  told  is  the  refreshing 
element  in  the  incident  ;  it  illustrates  the  happy  freedom  of 
our  intercourse,  and  the  absence  of  that  professional  reserve 
which  so  often  dehumanizes  our  clerical  gatherings. 

It  is  unkind  to  tell  tales  out  of  school  ;  but  as  all  the 
actors  in  the  following  little  scenes  have  passed  away,  it 
may  not  be  out  of  place  to  chronicle  these  harmless  tales. 
It  is  well  known  that  bishops  meet  for  mutual  counsel, 
and  talk  over  their  difficulties.  Sometimes  these  difficulties 
present  a  somewhat  comic  aspect  to  untrained  minds. 


SKETCHES  OF  PARSONS  WITH  A  MORAL  125 


One  such  difficulty  was  brought  before  his  brethren  by 
a  bishop  who  had  great  skill  in  argument,  and  delighted  in 
.presenting  a  question  under  a  wide  variety  of  view.  The 
difficulty  was  this — 

A  clergyman  had  telegraphed  to  him  for  instructions. 
A  fire  had  taken  place,  and  the  clergyman  was  asked  to  take 
the  funeral  of  one  of  the  victims ;  the  body  had  been 
almost  reduced  to  ashes  :  the  clergyman  desired  to  know 
whether  he  was  to  use  the  ordinary  burial  service  or 
whether  he  ought  not  to  alter  the  wording  of  the  service  ; 
for  how  could  he  truly  say  "  we  commit  his  body  to  the 
ground,"  when  there  is  literally  no  body  left  ?  The  bishop 
had  replied  that  the  service  must  not  be  altered.  Having 
told  the  story  he  proceeded  to  argue  the  question  after  his  own 
ingenious  and  logical  fashion.  After  all,  what  does  the  word 
body  mean  ?  Must  you  take  it  to  mean  the  body  as  we 
generally  know  it  Yet,  if  a  man  had  lost  arms  and  legs, 
would  you  hesitate  to  use  the  word  body  when  it  was  little 
more  than  his  trunk  which  you  committed  to  the  ground  ? 
The  idea  might  be  carried  further — What  is  a  body  Is  it  the 
material  bodily  framework  ?  Among  the  various  accidents 
of  life,  how  often  it  is  but  a  small  residue  of  the  body 
proper  which  is  left  at  the  last.  Disease  may  have  wasted 
away  the  bulk  of  the  bodily  tissue  :  accident  may  have 
reduced  the  frame  to  a  mere  fraction  of  its  former  self  ; 
fire,  as  in  the  case  in  question,  may  have  devoured  all  but 
an  insignificant  residuum  of  what  was  once  its  bulk. 

This  bore  on  cremation.  If  cremation  became  a  widely 
observed  practice  were  we  to  use  the  old  service  and  speak 
of  committing  the  body  to  the  ground.  After  all,  it  might 
be  quite  convenient  to  do  so.    All  we  meant  was  that  such 


126       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


remains  of  what  once  was  the  body  were  now  to  be  given 
the  sepulture  of  earth. 

After  the  bishop  had  delivered  his  thoughts  on  the 
subject,  a  debate,  or  rather  a  general  conversation,  ensued. 
One  bishop,  steeped  in  patristic  lore,  gave  utterance  to  his 
view  that  cremation  was  a  pagan  practice,  and  that  the 
distinction  between  heathens  and  Christians  was  well  set 
forth  by  one  of  the  Fathers,  who  had  pointedly  said,  "  They 
indeed  (the  heathen)  burn,  but  we  (the  Christians)  bury." 

Stirred  by  this  thought,  another  bishop  rose  and  delivered 
it  as  his  opinion  that  cremation  dangerously  threatened  the 
doctrine  of  the  resurrection,  and  destroyed  the  very  body 
of  which  St.  Paul  had  spoken  in  his  Corinthian  epistles. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  bishop  who  had  introduced 
the  subject.  He  rose,  and  with  some  vigour  and  vehemence 
repudiated  the  line  of  reasoning  ( i*)  which  his  brother  pre- 
late had  used.  The  words  of  St.  Paul  were  quite  plain  : 
"  That  which  thou  sowest,  thou  sowest  not  that  body  which 
shall  be,  but  bare  grain  .  .  .  :  but  God  giveth  it  a  body  as 
it  pleaseth  Him." 

It  was  a  curious  scene  :  it  set  one  wondering  at  the 
very  small  amount  of  thought  there  was  in  the  world,  and 
how  readily  a  man  might  reach  a  position  of  authority  and 
responsibility  without  having  greatly  exercised  his  brain. 

Another  scene  I  may  give — this  was  an  informal  meet- 
ing of  bishops.  Round  a  table  are  gathered,  perhaps,  some 
dozen  bishops.  The  question  to  be  considered  was  the 
fruitful  one  of  Bible  difficulties.  One  devout  bishop  was 
sorely  troubled  on  the  subject  of  the  iioth  Psalm,  which 
critics  declared  was  not  written  by  David,  but  which,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  our  Lord  had  treated  as  David's.  Christ 


SKETCHES  OF  PARSONS  WITH  A  MORAL  127 


had  said  :  "  David  in  the  Psalms  saith,  The  Lord  said 
unto  my  Lord,  Sit  thou  on  my  right  hand."  Must  we 
not  believe  that  our  Lord  knew  better  than  the  critics  ?  or 
how  were  we  to  explain  our  Lord's  ignorance  of  the  true 
authorship  of  the  Psalm  ? 

I  wonder  whether  the  mind  of  the  questioner  was 
satisfied  with  the  general  reply  that  Christ  was  not  com- 
mitting Himself  to  the  question  of  authorship  at  all :  He 
was  merely  citing  as  belonging  to  those  works  which  went 
under  the  common  title  of  David,  just  as  we  might  cite 
from  "  Blackstone,"  although  the  particular  case  we  referred 
to  might  be  found  in  an  edition  of  Blackstone  made  later 
than  the  date  of  the  famous  law  authority. 

The  question  of  Bible  difficulties  is  a  large  one,  and 
soon  the  old  difficulties  of  Jonah  and  the  Whale  and 
Balaam's  Ass  were  brought  forward.  When  some  of  the 
ordinary  answers  to  the  Jonah  difficulty  had  been  men- 
tioned, a  bishop,  pious  and  plaintive,  expressed  his  devout 
belief  :  "  Well,  I  feel  sympathy  with  the  dear  old  godly 
woman  who  said,  '  If  the  Bible  had  told  me  that  Jonah 
swallowed  the  whale,  I  would  have  believed  it.'  " 

Here  I  must  let  the  curtain  drop  :  the  records  are  of 
old  and  obsolete  days.  We  are  wiser  now  :  we  have 
learned  much  since  then.  We  can  afford  to  smile  over 
difficulties  which  troubled  many  pious  souls. 

ARCHBISHOP  TEMPLE 

Stories  of  the  early  years  of  men's  lives  have  special 
interest  when  they  give  some  hint  of  character  which  after- 
life brings  out  with  prominence.    The  remembrance  of 


128       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


this  kind  of  prophetic  feature  of  boyhood's  actions,  1  think, 
was  stirred  in  our  minds  when,  in  Bradford,  during  the 
Church  Congress  of  1898,  we  had  Archbishop  Temple 
with  us  as  our  guest.  We  had  taken  up  our  quarters  for 
the  week  at  the  Midland  Hotel,  and  there  the  archbishop 
joined  us.  Is  residence  under  the  same  roof  a  revealer  of 
men  If  so,  the  archbishop  revealed  the  best  and  kindest 
of  natures.  It  was  a  joy  to  have  him  :  his  happy  freedom, 
his  ready  mirthfulness,  his  strength  of  mind,  his  industrious 
energy,  were  conspicuous.  He  stayed  with  us  till  the  last 
possible  moment,  travelling  back  to  London  by  the  night 
train  rather  than  fail  to  help  us  at  our  evening  meeting. 
At  the  congress  he  was  a  real  strength  to  us  :  at  the  hotel 
he  was  frank  and  kindly,  full  of  anecdote  and  friendly  talk. 

How  vividly  he  told  us  of  his  boyish  experience  when 
his  mother  commissioned  him  to  do  some  errand  in  the 
neighbouring  town,  and  he  found  that  what  he  had  been 
asked  to  bring  was  heavier  and  more  cumbrous  than  he 
could  carry  with  anything  like  ease  or  comfort  ;  but  with 
him  there  was  no  question  of  shirking  difficulty.  If  a 
thing  had  to  be  done,  it  must  at  least  be  attempted. 
Accordingly,  now  lifting,  now  dragging,  now  resting,  now 
renewing  his  efforts,  he  travelled  with  his  burden  the 
homeward  journey,  and  so  fulfilled  successfully  the  difficult 
and  fatiguing  task.  The  incident  showed  character,  and 
character  is  the  chief  asset  in  life,  and  the  only  one  which 
in  the  long  run  counts. 

On  another  occasion  we  spoke  about  hymns.  I  told 
how  Mr.  Farmer,  to  whom  Harrow  owes  so  many  of  her 
school  songs,  had  acted  when  he  wanted  to  compile  a  hymn 
book  for  Balliol  College  chapel.     He   asked  a  certain 


SKETCHES  OF  PARSONS  WITH  A  MORAL  129 


number  of  his  acquaintances  to  send  him  a  list  of  twenty 
hymns,  the  choice  to  be  governed  by  this  condition  :  the 
hymns  chosen  were  to  be  such  that  young  men  would  be 
willing  to  sing  them,  and  would  not  be  ashamed,  twenty 
years  hence,  to  have  sung  them.  In  this  way  he  got 
several  lists  containing  twenty  hymns  each,  and  out  of 
these  he  was  able  to  compile  a  hymn  book  of  some 
hundred  hymns,  all  of  them  hymns  of  strong,  robust  and 
suitable  character.  I  asked  Mr.  Farmer  what  hymns  found 
a  place  in  the  majority  of  lists.  He  told  me,  if  I  recollect 
rightly,  that  the  hymn,  "  O  God,  our  help  in  ages  past," 
was  included  in  every  list.  I  told  this  to  the  archbishop 
and  the  rest  of  our  party  ;  and  I  added  that  I  thought  this 
hymn  the  finest  or  premier  hymn  in  the  English  language. 
The  archbishop — somewhat,  I  think,  to  my  surprise — did 
not  agree,  and  expressed  his  preference  for  hymns  of  a 
more  directly  personal  kind,  and  gave  as  an  example, 
"  The  King  of  Love  my  shepherd  is."  I  am  not  suggest- 
ing that  he  put  this  forward  as  his  favourite  hymn  ;  but  he 
certainly  showed  his  leaning  towards  the  class  of  hymns 
which  give  expression  to  personal  faith. 

We  were  thinking  of  different  things.  My  thoughts 
were  of  hymns  which  suit  multitudes,  or  which  embody 
national  or  collective  faith  ;  and  such  hymns  I  would  class 
among  those  which  might  be  called  fine — an  adjective  which 
1  would  not  apply  to  those  tender,  sweet,  spiritual  hymns 
of  individual  trust,  like  "  The  King  of  Love,"  or  "  Jesu, 
lover  of  my  soul,"  or  "  My  God,  the  spring  of  all  my 
joys."  These,  from  the  clinging  intimacy  of  their  language, 
belong  to  that  realm  of  spiritual  peace  and  satisfaction  in 
which  one  no  longer  considers  whether  the  sacred  ode  is 

K 


I30       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


fine  or  not  :  they  are  the  utterance  of  emotions  or  experi- 
ences which  lie  beyond  the  range  of  the  critical  faculty, 
which  judges  whether  a  thing  is  "fine"  or  not.  The  in- 
wardly recognized  truth  possesses  the  soul  to  the  exclusion 
for  the  moment  of  the  artistic  judgment. 

In  short,  at  the  moment  my  mind  was  set  upon  what 
my  mind  appreciated  while  the  archbishop  was  speaking 
of  what  he  found  soul-satisfying.  When  we  realized  this, 
we  were  found  to  be  nearer  in  accord  than  at  first  sight 
appeared.  What  is  fine  when  sung  by  thousands  in  worship 
is  not  always  spiritually  the  most  helpful  when  one  is  alone 
in  one's  room,  trying  to  find  nourishment  and  comfort  for 
the  failing  heart  or  the  burdened  soul. 

I  have  been  always  glad  to  recall  this  conversation  about 
hymns.  It  helped  to  clear  my  own  judgment,  and  it 
seemed  to  show  me  how  a  man,  great,  strong,  courageous 
and  true,  might  be  possessed  at  the  same  time  of  a  genuine 
and  touching  humility  of  spirit. 

Is  it  worth  while  recalling  what,  I  think,  must  have  been 
my  last  conversation  with  Archbishop  Temple  It  was  at 
the  close  of  a  bishops'  meeting.  He  said  he  felt  tired,  and 
could  not  do  his  work.  Naturally  I  suggested  rest,  which 
would  in  time  make  work  easy.  "  No,"  he  said,  "  I  am 
tired,  and  as  to  my  work,  I  don't  want  to  do  it."  I  answered  : 
"  If  your  worst  enemy  Said  that  I  should  not  believe  him." 
It,  however,  was  plain  enough  that  the  pressure  of  work 
had  worn  out  the  energy  so  much  that  even  the  thought 
of  work  seemed  a  burden  too  heavy  to  bear.  Remember- 
ing this,  I  can  feel  the  heroism  with  which  he  worked  on, 
and  died  gloriously  in  harness. 


HOLBECK  JUNCTION 


I  READ  in  an  advertisement  the  other  day  that  fifteen- 
sixteenths  of  convictions  for  crime  were  for  fraud.  I 
suppose  one  may  believe  that  crimes  of  violence  decrease 
as  society  becomes  civilized,  but  are  we  more  honest  ? 

Be  not  alarmed,  my  friend  ;  I  am  not  going  to  undertake 
a  dissertation  on  criminal  statistics.  The  question  I  asked, 
and  the  words  which  led  to  it,  were  only  like  a  preface, 
which  may  be  happily  irrelevant  to  what  follows.  While 
journeying  to  and  fro  upon  episcopal  work,  I  have  often  had 
to  spend  time  at  a  railway  station,  and  in  doing  so  I  have  found 
kind  friends  among  the  officials.  One  station  at  one  period 
saw  much  of  me.  Just  outside  Leeds  there  is  a  station 
called  Holbeck  :  I  used  to  know  it  well.  It  was  then 
the  station  where  tickets  were  collected  from  passengers 
travelling  to  Leeds  from  Ripon  ;  it  was  the  junction  also 
where  passengers  changed  for  the  Great  Northern  system, 
and  sometimes  for  the  Midland  system.  How  many  hours 
I  have  spent  in  the  upper  level  or  lower  level  stations  at 
Holbeck  !  How  many  good  friends  I  found  among  the 
foremen  and  porters  there  !  At  home  we  always  talked 
about  the  Holbeck  men  as  if  they  were  a  class  by  them- 
selves, distinguished  for  virtues  not  met  elsewhere.  To 
us  they  were  distinguished  by  kindness,  helpfulness, 
thoughtfulness  ;  they  eased  our  journeys,  they  lessened 
131 


132       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


our  fatigues,  they  carried  our  burdens  for  us  with  a  smile. 
Oh,  we  were  great  friends  !  Shall  I  ever  forget  the  good- 
natured  giant,  Davey  by  name,  with  his  huge  frame,  his 
paternal  eye,  his  strong  and  far-reaching  voice  ?  Why, 
as  I  write,  I  can  hear  it  as  it  rises  over  the  hustling  sound 
of  nervous  feet,  the  hum  of  the  luggage-laden  trucks,  and 
the  roar  of  the  incoming  train,  as  the  engine  bursts  through 
the  arch  of  the  upper  line.  "  Train  for  Harrogate,  Ripon, 
Darlington,  and  the  North,"  and  then,  almost  before  the 
echoes  died  away,  Davey  was  running  along  the  slackening 
train,  was  searching  the  carriages  with  kindly  look,  was 
opening  the  door  of  the  least  crowded  compartment  and 
helping  us  in  for  the  last  stage  of  the  journey  to  Ripon 
after  a  long  and  tiring  day.  Dear  Davey,  you  almost 
thought  we  had  proved  faithless  when  the  new  line  was 
opened  and  we  reached  Leeds  without  passing  through 
Holbeck,  or  travelled  to  and  from  London  by  a  route  which 
avoided  Leeds  and  Holbeck.  "  You're  quite  a  stranger," 
he  would  say,  looking  down  upon  me  with  a  wistful  expres- 
sion of  face.  I  declare  that  I  felt  almost  ashamed  that  we 
were  taking  advantage  of  improved  railway  communication. 
The  change  robbed  Holbeck  of  much  of  its  traffic  and  a 
good  deal  of  its  importance  ;  the  staff  was  reduced,  the 
two  or  three  hundred  trains  a  day  no  longer  rushed  and 
roared  through  the  stations.  What  it  may  be  now,  I 
cannot  say  ;  but  I  like  to  think  of  it  as  it  was  in  the  days 
of  its  glory,  when  I  paced  up  and  down  the  long  platform 
and  talked  to  the  men,  and  found  so  much  of  sweet  and 
true  humanity  in  them  all  ;  when  they  met  me  with 
smiling  faces  and  kindly  greetings,  when  we  always  made 


HOLBECK  JUNCTION 


133 


up  parcels  of  Christmas  cards  for  the  Holbeck  men,  when 
the  stationmaster's  room  was  always  at  my  disposal  to 
rest  or  to  chat  in. 

It  was  during  one  of  the  inevitable  intervals  spent  in 
the  stationmaster's  room  that  I  heard  stories  of  an 
inspector's  experience  on  the  line.  Here  I  come  back 
to  the  question  :  ^are  we  more  honest .''  The  inspector's 
business  was  not  that  of  ticket  collector  but  of  ticket 
inspector.  His  little  realm  of  inspection  comprised  a 
portion  of  the  London  and  Suburban  section  of  the  line 
it  extended  a  few  miles  north  of  London  to  the  city. 

Are  people  more  honest  ?  He  told  me  that  he 
collected  in  one  fortnight  £200  for  unpaid  fares  within 
his  own  district.  Not  all,  perhaps,  were  fraudulent  people  ; 
some,  no  doubt,  had  failed  to  book  through  hurry  ;  but  they 
were  not  all  forgetful  or  hurried  people  who  contributed 
to  the  1,200  which  was  gathered  in  that  fortnight. 

Many  were  the  devices  resorted  to  by  the  ingenuity 
of  those  who  shirked  honest  methods.  To  nod  in  a 
familiar  way  when  asked  for  ticket  and  to  murmur 
"  Season  "  was  one  method  :  this  was  generally  resorted 
to  by  those  who  were  usually  season  ticket  holders,  but 
who  sought  to  travel  economically  when  the  season  ticket 
had  expired,  and  so  to  enjoy  cheap  travelling  before 
embarking  on  another  period  of  expensive  honesty. 
Another  method  adopted  was  to  split  the  season  ticket, 
as  you  make  split  toast ;  then,  by  placing  each  half  in  a 
leather  frame,  with  the  rough  surface  below,  you  became 
possessed  of  the  appearance  of  two  season  tickets,  and 
you  could  take  your  wife  to  town  for  the  theatre  or 


134        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


concert,  posing  both  as  season  ticket  holders.  A  man 
who  was  nimble  of  foot  and  cool  of  brain  could  reduce 
the  cost  of  a  journey  by  bolting  out  of  the  train  and 
hastily  booking  for  the  last  part  of  the  journey  while  the 
train  was  waiting  at  the  station  ;  he  probably  booked  for 
the  first  part  of  the  journey,  then  travelled  without  cost 
for  the  interval  and  put  himself  right,  as  he  would  say, 
by  taking  a  ticket  for  the  final  stage.  The  inspector's 
eyes,  however,  were  sharp,  and  the  inspector  proved  to  be 
ubiquitous,  and  the  adroit  culprit  was  unexpectedly  con- 
fronted by  the  inspector  at  the  city  terminus,  and  was 
shown  to  have  in  his  possession  a  ticket  for  the  first  stage 
of  the  journey,  and  to  have  given  up  at  the  barrier  only  a 
ticket  for  the  last  stage  ;  and  as  the  inspector  had  watched 
the  whole  manoeuvre,  the  smart  young  man  was  haled 
forthwith  before  the  magistrate. 

But  here  is  the  most  curious  tale  I  heard  among  the 
tales  told  me  that  day.  A  certain  man  was  a  clever 
draughtsman,  and  he  bought  every  Saturday  a  week-end 
ticket  from  King's  Cross  to  Hornsey.  Before  using  it, 
he  altered  Hornsey  to  Holbeck.  This  required  some 
skill ;  but  it  was  done,  and  done  so  well  that  the  fraud 
was  not  discovered  for  some  time.  Every  week  this  man 
travelled  to  Leeds,  alighting,  as  his  ticket  intimated,  at 
Holbeck.  No  one  noticed  that  the  ticket  had  been 
tampered  with,  and  even  when  the  fraud  was  discovered 
it  was  not  discovered  through  any  clumsiness  of  the 
craftsman  culprit.  It  was  discovered  when  a  new  route 
was  opened  for  a  short  portion  of  the  line,  and  tickets 
were   issued   with    the   additional   words  :    "  By  West 


HOLBECK  JUNCTION 


135 


Yorkshire  line,"  or  some  such  indication  of  the  new  route. 
The  new  words  were  wanting  on  the  adventurer's  ticket, 
the  lack  of  them  led  to  inquiry,  and  the  inquiry  to 
discovery,  the  discovery  to  conviction  and  imprisonment. 

But  now  comes  the  most  strange  and  singular  part 
of  the  story.  What  was  the  object  of  this  weekly  journey 
to  Holbeck  and  back  ?  It  was  to  preach  at  some  evange- 
listic or  open-air  service  in  Leeds.  Human  nature  has 
its  surprises.  I  confess  to  a  wish  that  I  might  have  heard 
what  this  strange  man  had  to  preach  ;  what  odd  con- 
tradictions must  have  existed  in  such  a  man  !  Did  he 
find  in  his  missionary  task  a  justification  of  his  fraud  ? 
Did  he  lie  down  to  rest  on  Sunday  nights  with  a  quiet 
and  self-approving  conscience  Or  did  he  make  his 
preachings  profitable,  and  was  he  all  the  while  laughing  in 
his  sleeve  at  the  deceived  congregation  and  the  defrauded 
railway  company  ? 

Was  he  the  deliberate  deceiver  who,  like  Horace's 
false  worshipper,  besought  the  gods  to  help  him  to  appear 
good  while  he  was  not  so 

"Labra  movet  metuens  audiri  :  Pulchra  Laverna 
Da  mihi  fallere,  da  justo  sancto  que  videri  ; 
Noctem  peccatis,  et  fraudibus  objice  nubem." 

Hor.  E/>.,  i.  16  (543). 
"Divine  Laverna,  grant  me  safe  disguise, 
Let  me  seem  just  and  upright  in  men's  eyes, 
Shed  night  upon  my  crimes,  and  glamour  o'er  my  lies." 

Covington's  Translation. 

But  I  must  leave  these  Holbeck  memories,  yet  not 
without  a  tribute  to  the  kindly,  hardworking  men  who 
smoothed  my  way  and  often  revived  my  heart.    You  will 


136       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


not  find  them  in  Holbeck  now.  All  are  scattered  ;  I 
saw  recently  one  familiar  face  which  brought  back  old 
memories,  but  it  was  not  at  Holbeck.  Not  one,  I  think, 
of  the  old  Holbeck  men  are  to  be  found  there.  Davey 
is  dead.  The  strong,  big,  kindly  man — the  father  of  the 
platform — has  passed  on  to  the  other  world.  The  light 
of  that  other  world  shone  in  his  life  and  brightened  his 
closing  days.  Holbeck  could  never  seem  the  same  without 
him. 


MR.  MILLWRIGHT 


I  HAVE  met  men  who  have  interested  me  and  even 
impressed  me  by  some  trait  or  traits  of  character  which 
are  unusual.  Two  of  these  recur  to  my  memory  :  both  are 
dead  now,  but  there  are  people  alive  who  perhaps  would  not 
wish  them  to  be  spoken  of  by  name.  I  shall,  therefore, 
speak  of  them  by  some  fancy  names. 

Mr.  Millwright  was  not  a  typical  Yorkshireman  :  he 
was  not,  that  is  to  say,  of  the  John  Browdie  sort.  He  was 
lithe,  active  and  almost  nervously  built.  He  had  a  wide 
brow  and  a  face  weather-touched  and  broken  into  a  few 
broad  folds.  It  could  not  be  called  wrinkled,  and  it 
certainly  was  not  fleshy  or  flabby  ;  but  there  were  distinct 
marks  of  effort  and  energetic  attention  in  its  lines.  His 
life  had  been  successful.  He  had  been  brought  up  in  a 
fairly  cultivated  home,  and  he  had  been  designed  for  one  of 
the  professions  :  he  was  looked  upon  as  the  future  clergy- 
man of  the  family — a  foolishly  attempted  anticipation  which 
led  to  its  own  defeat.  A  lad  does  not  like  to  have  his  future 
fixed  and  paraded  perpetually  before  his  eyes.  The  well- 
meant,  but  silly  talk  of  the  home  provoked  an  obstinate 
distaste  in  the  lad's  mind,  and  he  turned  his  thoughts  to 
business,  and  in  business  he  succeeded. 

His  success,  however,  was  not  due  to  what  we  call 
137 


138       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


business  capacity,  which  often  means  adroitness  and  that 
smartness  which  is  second  cousin  to  fraud.  His  success 
was  due  to  the  patience  which  is  said  to  be  synonymous 
with  genius  :  he  was  a  born  inventor,  and  he  had  the  gift 
of  that  tenacity  of  purpose  and  long-continued  attention 
which  so  often  ensures  success.  If  Sir  Isaac  Newton  was 
right  in  saying  that  he  owed  his  success  to  his  habit  of 
"  always  intending  his  mind,"  this  man  of  whom  I  write  might 
fairly  make  the  same  claim.  Witness  him  when  all  the 
workmen  and  clerks  have  gone  home  !  See  how  he  spends 
the  night  !  He  is  lying  at  full  length  below  one  of  the  fabric- 
making  machines  :  he  is  watching  the  mechanism  :  he  will 
start  the  machine  and  note  the  interplay  of  wheels  and  teeth, 
of  leather  bands,  or  rough  canvas  foundation,  and  he  will 
devise  some  method  of  simplifying  the  process,  and  so 
effecting  economy  in  production.  He  lights  upon  one 
simple  method  of  economy.  When  the  foundation  material 
passes  through  the  machine,  the  m.achine  only  works  upon  one 
length  of  fabric.  If  the  downward  thrust  of  the  machine 
produces  the  required  result,  the  upward  thrust  might  be 
utilized  to  produce  a  similar  result.  Let  us  run  another 
course  of  foundation  material  parallel  to  the  lower  one,  and 
let  the  machinery  work  upon  two  lengths  at  the  same  time. 
It  will  then  only  need  to  cut  the  threads  between  the  two 
parallel  breadths  to  produce  two  lengths  of  fabric  instead  of 
one.  With  a  very  simple  device  the  productive  power  of 
the  machinery  is  doubled. 

This  is  only  one  of  the  many  simple  contrivances  which 
resulted  from  nights  of  patient  observation  and  reflection. 
It  was  to  this  power  of  attention  and  energy  of  action  that 


MR.  MILLWRIGHT 


139 


he  owed  his  success.  He  became  a  local  magnate — an 
honoured  benefactor  of  the  town  where  his  business  was 
done. 

When  I  was  in  the  town  at  one  time  I  heard  that  he  was 
ill,  in  the  hotel  where  I  was  lunching.  I  sent  up  my  card 
and  asked  if  he  would  like  to  see  me.  He  invited  me  to 
come.    I  found  him  in  a  small  bedroom  all  alone. 

I  said,  "  Mr.  Millwright,  you  ought  not  to  be  here 
alone  when  ill." 

"  Bishop,"  he  replied,  "  I  would  not  let  any  of  my 
family  come.  Two  doctors  from' London  came  down  to  see 
me  :  they  sat  in  that  chair  in  which  you  now  sit.  They  ex- 
amined me,  and  when  they  rose  up  I  read  death  in  their 
faces.  1  said  to  myself  :  If  I  am  to  get  well  I  had  better  be 
alone  ;  if  I  am  to  die,  I  had  better  be  alone  to  make  my 
peace  with  God.  So  I  would  not  have  any  member  of  my 
family  with  me." 

The  strength  of  character  which  such  a  resolution  dis- 
closed impressed  me  much,  and  my  interest  in  Mr.  Mill- 
wright increased.  He  recovered  and  lived  to  a  good  old 
age  :  he  kept  his  mental  vigour  to  the  last.  Here,  for 
instance  is  a  letter  he  wrote  me  when  he  was  more  than 
ninety-one  years  of  age — 

"  Knowing  how  much  you  are  occupied,  I  will  be 
as  brief  as  possible. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  trouble  you  by  asking  you  to 
give  me  your  opinion,  but  simply  to  indicate  any  work 
or  book  that  explains  how,  if  the  *  Garden  of  Eden  ' 
and  the  '  Fall '  is  simply  a  myth,  and  if  there  was  no 
'  Fall,'  how  could  there  be  any  '  Atonement '  ? 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


"  Then  what  becomes  of  the  Christian  religion  ? 
You  will  see  that  these  questions  are  vital,  and  require 
to  be  thoughtfully  considered." 

Whatever  crudeness  of  conception  may  be  thought  to 
underlie  these  questions,  there  is  no  doubt  that  this  letter 
shows  alacrity  and  sincerity  of  mind  on  the  part  of  one  who 
had  passed  fourscore  and  ten. 

I  sent  him  a  book,  then  much  lauded,  thinking  that, 
though  I  found  it  feeble,  it  might  suggest  to  him  some 
helpful  line  of  thought.  Within  a  few  days  it  was  returned 
to  me :  he  found  it  unsatisfactory  and  of  no  mental  service. 
My  experiment  had  answered,  for  now  I  was  able  to  judge 
better  what  kind  of  work  would  suit  him.  He  was  quite 
able  to  take  stronger  meat.  Accordingly  I  recommended 
to  him  a  book  which,  for  honesty  of  mind  and  frank 
recognition  of  difficulties,  was  in  my  view  the  best  bit  of 
Christian  apologetic  I  knew  at  the  time.  It  was  a  book 
which  certain  obscurantist  minds  had  condemned  as 
dangerous,  because  they  failed  to  read  it  with  an  intelligent 
wish  to  understand  it.  This  time  my  effort  was  successful 
and  Mr.  Millwright  wrote — 

"  Let  me  thank  you  for  pointing  out  a  most 
admirable  book,  which  was  just  what  I  wanted,  so  full 
of  deep  thought.  I  agree  with  the  author  that  there 
can  be  no  religion  without  faith^  but  on  the  other  hand, 
faith  without  reason^  which  I  may  say  hitherto  has  been 
almost  universally  the  case  with  all  the  religious  world, 
is  simply  a  ship  without  a  rudder  and  may  lead  to 
anything. 

*'  Look  at  what  I  was  taught  by  the  Church  :  that, 


MR.  MILLWRIGHT 


141 


with  few  exceptions,  the  whole  world  was  to  suffer 
everlasting  fire,  because  of  Adam  and  the  apple  !  and 
there  never  was  such  a  person  !  !  !  There  you  see 
the  results  of  faith  without  reason,  and  that,  too,  in 
the  most  enlightened  country  in  the  world,  and  the 
greatest  freedom  of  thought." 

I  am  not  citing  these  for  the  sake  of  the  particular  theo- 
logical matters  referred  to,  but  for  the  sake  of  illustrating 
the  alertness  of  mind  and  intellectual  interest  which  marked 
this  remarkable  nonagenarian  who,  after  a  life  of  hard  work, 
prolific  inventiveness,  and  unusual  business  success,  could 
occupy  himself  in  the  study  of  questions  which  required 
careful  and  sustained  thought.  The  vigour  and  activity  of 
his  mind  continued  with  him  to  the  last.  His  leaf  did  not 
wither,  and  life  did  not  lose  its  interest  ;  he  knew  the  secret 
of  old  age — the  inquiring  spirit  and  well-grounded  faith. 


GOOD  FRIDAY 


There  is  a  happiness  in  recalling  work  in  which  the 
glad  co-operation  of  willing  workers  has  been  a  source  of 
constant  joy.  As  I  look  back  there  was  no  work  in  which 
such  a  loyal  co-operation  was  seen  as  I  met  with  when  we 
started  a  special  Good  Friday  service  in  Leeds.  I  do  not 
think  that  any  one  could  have  had  a  more  noble  and  self- 
denying  body  of  helpers  than  those  who  formed  what  we 
called  the  Good  Friday  Committee.  1  am  not  writing  a 
history  of  that  service  :  I  am  writing  only  about  the  men 
who  for  more  than  twenty  years  worked  to  make  the 
service  a  success. 

Good  Friday  was  treated  in  many  places  as  a  holiday, 

and  nothing  more.    It  is  true  that  quiet  and  devout  people 

went  to  church  that  day  full  of  grateful  and  tender  thoughts 

of  the  great  love  of  Christ,  but  there  were  thousands  who 

took  advantage  of  the  slackening  of  work  and  treated  it  as 

a  day  for  amusement.    I  have  said  a  slackening  of  work,  for 

that  day  was  not  everywhere  or  by  every  employer  of  labour 

regarded  as  even  a  holiday.    Some  factories  even  kept  at 

work  all  day  long  :  the  day  had  no  meaning  and  no  sanctity 

for  some  business  men.    It  seemed  to  me  a  pity  that  no 

special  effort  was  made  to  bring  the  sacred  memories  of  the 

day  before  the  great  numbers  who  ignored  its  meaning 

either  by  toil  or  by  amusement. 

142 


GOOD  FRIDAY 


143 


A  curious  story,  told  me  by  Dean  Burgon,  tended  to 
quicken  my  wish.  The  story  is  so  remarkable  that  I  tell 
it  here  :  it  may  put  others  on  their  guard  not  to  assume 
too  readily  that  what  is  commonly  spoken  of  is  always 
understood.  Dean  Burgon — or  Mr.  Burgon  I  ought  to 
say,  for  it  was  before  he  was  made  Dean  of  Chichester — 
was  seated  one  Saturday  in  his  study  preparing  his  sermon 
for  Sunday.  He  was  told  that  the  mistress  of  his  school 
wished  to  see  him.  When  she  came  in,  she  said,  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Burgon,  I  have  just  learned  a  most  dreadful  thing  1  "  Mr. 
Burgon  wondered  what  mishap  had  occurred,  and  asked 
what  was  the  matter.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  "  I  hear  that  when 
our  Lord  was  put  to  death  they  drove  nails  into  His  feet 
and  into  His  hands,  and  then  hung  Him  up  on  the  Cross  !" 
Mr.  Burgon  was  puzzled  by  this  utterance,  and  replied, 
"  Yes,  yes,  of  course "  ;  whereupon  the  schoolmistress 
said,  "  But,  oh  !  wasn't  it  very  cruel "  "  Yes,  yes,  of 
course  it  was,"  said  Mr.  Burgon  ;  "  but  I  don't  understand 
why  you  come  to  speak  of  it  just  now  :  we  all  know  that 
our  Lord  was  crucified.  What  has  made  you  think  of  it 
now  ?  "  "  Oh,"  she  said,  "  I  have  just  seen  the  new  window 
put  up  in  the  church." 

"  But  do  you  mean  you  never  knew  this  before  " 

Here,  at  last,  was  the  key  to  the  schoolmistress's 
emotion.  She  had  read  and  taught  that  our  Lord  was 
crucified,  but  what  crucifixion  meant  was  completely  un- 
known to  her.  It  was  the  stained  glass  window  with  the 
scene  of  the  crucifixion  which  first  disclosed  to  her  the  real 
significance  of  that  mode  of  death. 

What  was  concealed  from  this  schoolmistress  might 


144       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


well  be  unknown  to  multitudes  who  vaguely  knew  the  story 
of  our  Lord,  but  had  never  realized  the  actual  details  of 
what  had  occurred.  Words  did  not  always  explain  them- 
selves. The  word  "  crucifixion  "  did  not  of  itself  explain 
its  meaning  to  the  mere  English  reader.  .  Pictures  were 
useful  adjuncts  to  instruction  :  we  taught  through  the  ear, 
but  why  should  we  not  teach  through  the  eye  also  Good 
Friday  was  only  a  day  of  mere  relaxation  of  work  to  thou- 
sands upon  thousands.  The  story  of  the  day :  the  suffering 
of  the  Saviour  :  the  sweet  patience  :  the  loving  thoughtful- 
ness  for  others  :  the  pang  of  loneliness  :  the  persistent 
malice  of  the  chief  priests  :  the  hard  indifference  of  others  ; 
these  things  might  possibly  be  completely  unknown  to  the 
multitudes  who  only  welcomed  Good  Friday  as  a  curious 
day  in  which  many  people  had  a  holiday  and  some  were 
seen  going  to  church. 

Thoughts  of  this  kind  awakened  the  wish  to  mark  the 
day  by  some  special  effort  to  tell  the  story  of  the  day  to 
those  who  treated  it  with  indifference,  and  never  went  to 
church.    Hence  the  Good  Friday  Committee. 

At  first  there  was  difficulty :  the  clergy  of  Leeds  were 
not  sympathetic  ;  they  feared  that  such  a  meeting  would 
compete  with  the  church  services.  For  a  year  we  had  to 
hold  our  hands  :  then,  after  a  meeting  in  which  I  set  my 
views  before  the  clergy,  I  was  rewarded  by  their  acquiescence. 
I  promised  that  the  special  service  should  not  begin  till  the 
usual  evening  services  were  over.  I  told  them  that  I  pro- 
posed that  the  committee  should  consist  of  all  the  beneficed 
clergy  of  Leeds,  together  with  five  lay  representatives  from 
each  parish.    Thus  the  committee  was  formed.  Practically 


GOOD  FRIDAY 


145 


the  work  was  done  by  the  lay  members  of  the  committee. 
As  there  were  fifty  parishes  in  Leeds,  the  nominal  strength 
of  the  lay  members  of  the  committee  was  two  hundred  and 
fifty.  They  came  together  willingly  :  two  hundred  and 
fifty  men,  who  were  occupied  in  hard  and  onerous  work  all 
through  the  week  :  they  comprised  men  of  all  kinds  of 
calling  ;  but,  speaking  generally,  they  were  all  what  would 
be  called  working  men.  Dear,  good,  strong,  sturdy,  simple- 
hearted,  Christ-loving,  loyal  men — a  joy  and  a  support  to 
me  for  more  than  twenty  years. 

We  met  for  consultation,  for  prayer,  for  social  inter- 
course, for  recreation  ;  we  learned  by  experience  the  best 
way  of  carrying  out  our  object  :  soon,  men  possessed  of 
special  skill  came  forward,  and  gave  us  the  valuable  aid 
which  only  experts  can  give.  One  man,  skilled  in  the  use 
of  lantern  slides,  became  our  operator,  and  through  the 
many  years  of  our  work  never  once  failed  us  J  another, 
once  a  sergeant  in  the  army,  undertook  the  task  of  building 
the  platform  ;  besides  special  work  such  as  these,  the  work 
of  the  committee  was  to  distribute  the  tickets  for  our  Good 
Friday  service.  This  was  a  task  which  needed  judgment  as 
well  as  zeal.  Our  aim  was  to  invite  and  admit  only  men 
who  went  to  no  place  of  worship  :  we  wished  to  reach  those 
who  were  outside  the  influence  of  ordinary  religious  organi- 
zations. It  is  to  the  credit  of  the  committee  that  this  task 
was  so  well  fulfilled.  The  further  duty  of  the  committee 
was  to  act  as  stewards  on  the  night  of  the  service.  Thus 
we  had  scattered  throughout  the  hall  of  meeting,  two 
hundred  and  fifty  men,  members  of  the  committee,  dis- 
tinguished by  the  badge  of  their  stewardship.    It  was  in 

L 


146       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


1890  that  we  made  our  first  attempt  to  hold  this  special 
service  :  Good  Friday  fell  that  year  upon  April  4.  The 
only  hall  available  that  year  was  the  drill  hall  —  a  large 
empty  building,  destitute  of  furniture.  As  the  hall  was 
not  even  provided  with  seats,  we  had  to  do  the  best  we 
could  to  provide  them  ourselves.  Then  I  first  discovered 
the  genuine  and  solid  zeal  of  the  men  of  my  Good  Friday 
Committee.  No  difficulties  daunted  them.  Seats  were 
needed  :  sitting  accommodation  must  be  provided.  If  we 
could  not  have  seats,  we  would  hire  boards.  Boards  were 
brought  in  :  rough  benches  supported  upon  blocks  of  wood 
soon  filled  the  hall.  The  men  worked  hard,  bravely  and 
quickly.  The  vigorous  earnestness  of  the  committee 
overcame  all  obstacles.  The  night  came  :  the  platform  on 
which  I  was  to  stand  was  provided.  At  a  distance  from  this, 
in  the  centre  of  the  hall,  another  platform  was  erected  for 
the  lantern  :  Mr.  Reed,  of  whom  I  have  spoken,  had  charge 
of  the  lantern  :  near  him  sat  my  wife,  who  handed  to  him 
the  slides  as  they  were  required,  keeping  to  the  order  which 
she  and  I  had  arranged  beforehand. 

It  was  an  anxious  moment  when  the  hour  came  for 
the  service,  which  was  an  experiment  and,  in  the  view  of 
some,  an  innovation  :  the  hall  was  full  of  men  :  the  hymns, 
which  were  thrown  upon  the  screen,  were  taken  up  with 
zest.  There  was  no  organ,  but  the  committee  led  the  sing- 
ing with  such  energy,  that  soon  it  seemed  that  the  whole 
assembly  had  joined  in  the  hymn.  Happily  it  was  York- 
shire, and  in  the  West  Riding  of  Yorkshire  they  know 
how  to  sing. 

It  was  at  this  meeting  that  I  had  a  small  experience 


GOOD  FRIDAY 


H7 


of  telepathic  influence  :  for  a  moment  I  feared  that  my 
memory  would  fail  on  a  matter  which,  especially  at 
an  experimental  service,  might  be  of  importance.  In 
arranging  the  order  in  which  the  slides  were  to  appear,  we 
had  put  them  into  four  or  five  groups  :  each  group  was 
divided  oflF  from  the  others  by  a  hymn,  for  we  had  three 
hymns,  I  think,  at  intervals  during  the  address.  My  task 
was  to  remember  the  slides  which  were  to  appear  in  these 
several  groups.  When  we  had  reached  the  last  hymn  but 
one,  and  while  they  were  singing  it,  I  bethought  myself 
that  I  had  better  run  over  in  my  mind  the  slides  in  the 
order  in  which  they  were  needed  in  the  next  group.  I 
went  over  the  first  three  or  four,  and  then  my  mind  was 
blank  :  I  could  not  pick  up  the  recollection  of  the  next 
slide.  Time  was  running  on  :  the  verses  of  the  hymn 
were  diminishing  :  I  must  recall  the  whole  number  of 
remaining  slides  :  I  was  lost  for  want  of  the  fourth  or  fifth 
slide,  which  I  could  not  recall.  The  fear  that  I  could  not 
recall  it  in  time  only  served  to  paralyse  my  power  of  recol- 
lection. Then  I  deliberately  tried  telepathy.  1  set  my 
mind  hard  to  influence  my  wife's  mind,  and  I  mentally 
asked  her.  What  is  the  fourth  or  fifth  slide  for  the  next 
group  ?  Then,  as  if  by  magic,  after  a  short  but  sensible 
interval,  it  came  back  to  me,  and  I  was  able  to  follow  the 
order  of  the  closing  slides. 

Now  there  is  nothing  remarkable  in  this  so-called 
telepathic  experience.  Indeed,  it  will  be  said,  as  I  said 
to  myself  at  the  time,  there  is  no  evidence  of  any  telepathy 
here  ;  all  that  happened  was,  that  the  memory  recovered 
itself,  and  gave  back  the  missing  slide.    Yes,  that  is  just 


148        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


what  I  said  to  myself  might  have  been  the  case  ;  but  I 
carried  the  matter  a  little  further  :  I  wished  to  ascertain 
whether,  at  the  moment  when  1  was  mentally  asking  for  the 
slide,  my  wife  was  aware  of  my  influence  upon  her  mind  ; 
so,  without  telling  her  of  my  experience,  I  questioned  her 
about  the  service  and  the  singing  ;  and  then  she  told  me 
that  when  the  last  hymn  but  one  was  being  sung,  she  was 
enjoying  the  wholehearted  way  in  which  the  men  were 
joining  :  she  was  happy  in  just  listening  to  the  volume  of 
sound  given  forth  by  such  united  singing.  While  thus  just 
listening,  it  came  suddenly  into  her  mind  that  she  must  go 
over  the  slides  for  the  next  group,  and  accordingly  she  did 
so.  It  came  as  a  kind  of  necessity  upon  her  at  the  moment 
when  I  was  exerting  my  mind  to  influence  hers  for  that 
very  thing.  I  am  not  pressing  this  as  an  instance  of 
genuine  telepathic  influence,  for  it  is  obvious  enough  that 
the  experience  both  of  myself  and  my  wife  might  be 
accounted  for  in  another  way  ;  but  I  may  here  say  that  the 
experience  does  not  stand  alone.  More  than  once  I  tried 
the  same  mental  effort  with  the  object  of  arresting  my  wife's 
attention  and  getting  her  help,  and,  whatever  the  full  and 
true  explanation  may  be,  I  found  the  experiment  successful. 
For  example,  once  when  I  was  holding  an  ordination  in 
the  private  chapel  at  Ripon,  I  noticed,  in  the  middle  of  the 
Litany,  that  the  Bibles  and  New  Testaments  which  were  to 
be  given  to  the  candidates  for  Orders,  had  been  forgotten, 
and  were  not  in  their  place  at  hand.  I  was  at  the  east  end 
of  the  chapel  :  my  wife  was  at  the  extreme  west  end  ;  but 
again  I  fixed  my  mind  to  arrest  her  attention  :  I  fastened  it 
on  the  thought  of  the  missing  books  :  I  looked  towards 


GOOD  FRIDAY 


49 


her  :  she  saw  my  look,  and  in  a  moment,  without  any 
hesitation,  she  sent  some  one  for  the  missing  books  and  they 
were  brought  in.  These  are  trifling  matters  from  one  point 
of  view  ;  but  they  were  not  trifling  at  the  time,  and  the 
success  of  my  experiments,  however  they  are  to  be  ex- 
plained, was  a  great  relief  to  me  both  in  the  chapel  and 
in  the  drill  hall. 

The  service  in  the  drill  hall  was  the  beginning  of  the 
work  which  my  Good  Friday  Committee  carried  on  with 
me  for  twenty-two  years.  Our  first  service  was  held  in 
1890  :  and  it  was  held  for  the  twenty-second  time  in  191 1, 
my  last  year  as  Bishop  of  Ripon.  I  took  the  service,  by 
the  wish  of  the  present  Bishop  of  Ripon,  in  19 14,  but 
this  lies  a  little  outside  my  own  record,  though  it  was  a  joy 
to  meet  again  those  loyal  helpers,  who  for  upwards  of 
twenty  years  had  never  failed  me. 

The  bonds  between  us  were  drawn  more  closely  as 
the  years  went  on.  We  understood  one  another  :  we  loved 
one  another.  We  had  taken  several  excursions  together, 
and  an  intercourse  when  visiting  towns  of  interest,  in  meet- 
ing the  fatigues  and  pleasures  of  the  journey,  served  to 
make  strong  the  bonds  of  a  friendship  which  was  begun 
in  a  joint  endeavour  to  be  of  help  to  our  brother  men. 

The  excursions — we  had  fifteen  in  all — included,  besides 
our  house  at  Ripon,  Brussels,  Cambridge,  Oxford,  Windsor, 
Belfast,  London,  Chester,  York  and  Ryther.  The  tale  of 
our  adventures  on  these  excursions  would  be  too  long  to 
tell.  Brussels  was,  I  think,  the  most  remarkable,  as  it  was 
the  most  adventurous  of  them  all.  It  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  many  could  aflTord  the  time  or  money  for 


I50       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


a  visit  to  Brussels — nevertheless,  as  many  as  fifty  joined  in 
the  trip.  They  left  Leeds  on  the  Friday  night  before 
Whit  Sunday  :  they  reached  Brussels  early  on  Saturday  : 
we  took  them  out  to  Waterloo  :  there  we  had  lunch  ;  we 
brought  them  back  to  Brussels  and  took  them  to  the 
Exposition,  which  was  then  open.  The  engineering  section 
attracted  some  of  our  party,  and  it  was  amusing  to  see  an 
eager  Englishman  trying  to  get  a  mechanical  explanation 
from  a  Belgian  who  knew  no  English.  We  had  to  act  as 
interpreters  on  more  than  one  occasion.  We  had,  indeed, 
more  than  one  laughter-provoking  experience.  The  men 
were  much  impressed  when  they  saw,  as  they  journeyed 
through  Flanders,  the  women  working  in  the  fields. 
"  Eh,"  said  one  of  the  party,  "  the  next  time  I  marry,  I 
shall  marry  one  of  these  women  who  can  work,  and 
besides,  when  she  scolds  me  I  shall  not  understand  her." 

The  buildings  in  Brussels  were  a  kind  of  revelation  to 
some  of  the  party.  "  This,"  said  one  of  them,  as  we  came 
up  to  the  Palais  des  Beaux  Arts,  "  this  reminds  me  of  the 
age  of  Sardanapalus  !  "  On  the  Sunday  we  attended  the 
English  Church  :  it  was  an  imposing  party  which  entered 
the  church  that  morning  :  more  than  fifty  of  us,  all  of 
whom  joined  lustily  in  the  singing.  "  Aye,  didn't  we  lift 
the  roof  off?"  was  what  was  said.  We  made  a  goodly 
addition  to  the  number  of  the  communicants  in  the  little 
church. 

On  Monday  we  went  to  Antwerp,  saw  the  churches  and 
the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  returned  to  Brussels  in  time 
for  dinner,  after  which  the  party  started  back  for  England 
and  were  landed  at  Leeds  on  Tuesday  morning. 


GOOD  FRIDAY 


The  arrangements  for  the  excursion  were  undertaken  by- 
Messrs.  Lunn,  and  they  were  admirable.  A  courier  was 
with  the  party  all  the  time,  and  he  relieved  us  of  a  great 
many  small  details  of  business  :  he  made  himself  respon- 
sible for  the  tips  and  prices  of  admission  to  the  various 
places  we  visited.  I  think  that  our  party  caused  great 
astonishment  to  the  hotel-keepers  :  the  party  was  scattered 
for  sleeping  purposes  among  three  hotels  ;  but  all  met  for 
the  principal  meals  in  one  hotel.  The  men  of  the  com- 
mittee were  accustomed  to  sing  the  grace  before  and  after 
their  meals,  and  when  the  fifty  men  lifted  up  their  voices 
for  the  purpose,  there  was  grave  astonishment,  which 
bordered  on  alarm,  among  the  officials  of  the  hotel. 
However,  before  the  Monday  was  over,  they  had  accepted 
the  position,  and  no  doubt  regarded  the  singing  as  another 
proof  of  the  madness  of  the  English. 

The  Brussels  excursion  was  in  every  way  a  great  success, 
and  I  feel  sure  that  many  of  those  who  were  with  us  in 
1 897  feel  their  interest  in  that  happy  excursion  deepened  now 
as  they  have  read  of  all  the  savage  and  wanton  cruelties 
which  an  unscrupulous  and  ruthless  enemy  has  brought 
upon  that  land  which  we  saw  then  peaceful,  industrious 
and  happy,  little  dreaming  then  that  sinister  ambition  would 
tempt  a  powerful  people  to  violate  their  pledged  word  and 
stain  their  honour  with  a  stain  which  centuries  of  virtue  can 
hardly  wash  away. 

Perhaps  next  to  this  visit  to  Brussels  our  excursion  to 
Belfast  possessed  the  greatest  interest  :  it  had  a  characteristic 
of  its  own  ;  for  it  was  marked  by  the  ready  hospitality  shown 
by  the  working  men  of  Belfast  to  those  of  Leeds. 


152       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


It  came  about  in  this  way.  The  Bishop  of  Down  and 
Connor  (Dr.  Welland)  had  been  a  lifelong  friend  :  his 
father  and  my  father  had  been  friends,  and  the  friendship 
descended  to  the  next  generation.  To  Dr.  Welland  I 
owed  much  :  in  days  when  I  was  a  schoolboy,  and  he  was 
an  undergraduate,  working  hard  for  honours,  he  came  as  a 
visitor  to  our  house.  He  was  a  most  industrious  student, 
and  I  admired  the  indefatigable  diligence  which  he  showed 
even  in  those  days  which  he  might  have  reckoned  as  holidays. 
It  so  happened  that  I  was  at  that  time  face  to  face  with  a 
step  forward  in  my  education  :  I  had  to  commence  Greek, 
and  in  the  initial  stages  our  guest,  Mr.  Welland,  gave  me 
useful  help.  I  used  to  say  in  after  years  that  he  taught  me 
my  Greek  alphabet.  Time  went  by  :  he  found  himself 
bewildered  in  a  question  which  in  those  days  exercised  the 
minds  of  theological  students  in  a  degree  which  would 
amaze  the  students  of  to-day.  There  were  those  who,  lay- 
ing heavy  emphasis  on  the  doctrine  of  Election,  would  have 
it  that  our  Lord's  death  purchased,  as  it  were,  the  body  of 
the  elect,  and  only  these  :  the  benefits  of  His  death  and 
sacrifice  did  not  avail  for  others.  Only  the  elect  would 
be  saved,  therefore  only  the  elect  had  been  redeemed, 
otherwise  the  sacrifice  was  in  part  a  failure,  which  was 
unthinkable.  The  question,  therefore,  which  was  raised 
took  this  form  :  Did  Christ  die  for  all  men  or  for  the  elect 
only  .''  The  Calvinistic  view,  as  it  was  called  most  unfairly, 
for  it  was  contrary  to  Calvin's  teaching — the  Calvinistic 
view  or  the  view  which  advocated  a  limited  redemption  by 
Christ's  death,  fascinated  young  Mr.  Welland.  My  father, 
who  took  a  deep  interest  in  him,  wrote  a  long  letter  on 


GOOD  FRIDAY 


the  subject,  and  the  letter  was  the  means  of  liberating 
Mr.  Welland's  mind  from  the  narrow  and  harsh  concep- 
tions of  this  so-called  Calvinistic  doctrine. 

Later,  when  I  had  won  an  open  scholarship  at  Cam- 
bridge, and  we  were  spending  the  summer  in  Ireland,  Mr. 
Welland  again  helped  me  by  coaching  me  in  mathematics  : 
and  three  or  four  years  afterwards,  on  the  Sunday  after  my 
ordination,  the  first  church  in  which  I  officiated  was  the 
church  in  Dublin  in  which  Mr.  Welland  ministered.  Thus 
in  the  earlier  part  of  my  life  my  lot  was  often  cast  near  to 
Mr.  Welland.  Years  passed  by,  and  our  lives  were  sun- 
dered ;  he  remained  in  Ireland  :  my  lot  was  cast  in  England  : 
and  during  those  years  we  scarcely  saw  one  another.  In 
process  of  time  he  became  Bishop  of  Down  and  I  became 
Bishop  of  Ripon,  and  I  ventured  to  invite  him  to  come  over 
and  preach  for  our  diocesan  charities.  He  kindly  came,  and 
our  friendship  revived.  While  he  was  with  us  I  had  to 
meet  my  Good  Friday  Committee,  and  he  accompanied  me. 
He  did  more  :  he  spoke  a  few  kindly  words  to  the  men, 
and  as  he  heard  of  our  excursions  he  very  cordially  invited 
the  committee  to  visit  Belfast.  I  think  that  the  Bishop 
was  surprised  at  the  alacrity  with  which  his  invitation  was 
accepted  ;  the  moment  he  mentioned  the  idea,  the  consent- 
ing acquiescence  and  appreciation  of  the  meeting  expressed 
itself  in  long  and  loud  plaudits. 

So  the  visit  to  Belfast  was  arranged,  and  as  it  happened, 
it  was  fixed  for  a  most  appropriate  time  :  it  coincided  with 
the  opening  of  the  Belfast  Cathedral.  It  was  marked 
by  the  warm  and  generous  hospitality  of  these  northern 
men  of  Ireland.    A  committee  of  working  men,  brought 


154       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


together  in  much  the  same  way  as  our  Leeds  committee, 
aided  in  arranging  the  hospitality  :  in  this  way  every 
member  of  our  Good  Friday  Committee  was  received  as 
a  guest  during  his  stay  in  Belfast,  More  than  this,  on  our 
arrival,  we  found  that  an  excursion  to  the  Giant's  Causeway 
had  been  arranged.  This  meant  that  we  were  conveyed  to 
Portrush  by  train,  that  lunch  was  provided  for  us  on  the 
train,  that  from  Portrush  to  the  Giant's  Causeway  we  were 
taken  by  the  light  railway.  We  rambled  over  the  great 
mass  of  pillared  stones.  The  angles  formed  by  the 
stones  had  been  discussed,  and  one  of  our  party  was  thence- 
forward intent  upon  finding  what  he  called  "  the  octopus 
stone  " — *'  I  want  to  find  that  octopus  stone."  At  every 
point  some  unexpected  and  unknown  friend  appeared  eager 
and  ready  to  help  us  on  our  way.  We  returned  to  Belfast 
in  the  evening  :  on  Sunday  we  attended  the  cathedral.  On 
Monday  we  saw  the  great  dockyards  of  Harland  and  WolfF : 
the  Baltic,  if  I  remember  rightly,  was  nearing  completion. 
We  saw  over  her,  and  her  name  became  familiar  to  us  later 
on  ;  for  on  the  occasion  of  my  two  visits  to  the  United 
States,  in  1904  and  19 12,  we  travelled  by  the  BaUic,  and 
found  her  to  be  a  steady  and  comfortable  vessel. 

The  members  of  our  Good  Friday  Committee  left 
Belfast  amid  the  warm  cheers  and  enthusiastic  farewells 
of  the  Belfast  men,  whose  hospitality  they  had  enjoyed. 
Friendships  were  formed,  and  a  happy  sense  of  brotherly 
kindness  between  the  two  cities  was  created.  Our  com- 
mittee greatly  wished  to  return  the  hospitality  of  our  Irish 
friends  ;  but,  unfortunately,  some  difficulties  arose  which 
prevented  the  realization  of  this  hope  ;  but  I  have  very 


GOOD  FRIDAY 


155 


little  doubt  that  the  interchange  of  visits  between  the 
working  men  of  different  towns  works  for  good  in  creating 
good  feeling  and  a  good  understanding  based  on  mutual 
respect  and  sympathy. 

Our  excursions  to  other  places  had  their  peculiar  interest. 
I  think  that  our  working  men  will  never  forget  the  personal 
interest  and  almost  princely  hospitality  which  was  shown 
them  by  the  Warden  of  Merton  (Mr.  Brodrick)  when  we 
visited  Oxford,  or  the  lunch  given  us  in  Trinity  College 
Hall  the  day  we  visited  Cambridge. 

These  little  sketches  will  seem  dull  and  uninteresting  to 
my  readers  ;  but,  dear  reader,  forgive  me.  If  you  had 
known  these  dear  men  of  Leeds  as  I  knew  them,  if  you 
had  seen  their  devotion  to  our  task,  their  natural  chivalry 
towards  my  wife  and  daughter  during  these  excursions, 
their  heartiness,  their  generosity,  you  would  find  in  every 
chronicle  of  their  sayings  and  doings  a  deep  and  abiding 
interest. 

I  might  chronicle  some  of  their  sayings  :  1  might  tell 
the  tale  of  other  excursions,  but,  full  of  interest  as  these 
were,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  perhaps  their  visits  to  us 
at  Ripon  were  among  the  happiest  of  our  experiences.  On 
the  two  excursions  to  distant  places  only  a  certain  propor- 
tion, something  from  thirty  to  forty  per  cent,  of  our  members, 
could  command  the  necessary  time  ;  but  when  they  came  to 
Ripon,  nearly  all  could  come  for  the  whole  or  part  of  the  day. 
Moreover,  they  could  bring  their  wives  with  them,  and  this 
gave  an  added  zest  to  their  enjoyment.  Then  games  and 
contests  were  planned  :  prizes  competed  for  ;  we  had  lunch 
in  the  open  air,  if  the  weather  allowed  :  happily  it,  generally 


156        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


speaking,  was  favourable.  Our  last  act  on  these  occasions 
was  the  little  farewell  service  in  the  chapel,  when  the  men 
lifted  up  their  voices  in  hymns  of  praise.  The  last  act,  did 
I  say  ?  No,  there  was  one  more,  but  it  was  not  on  the 
programme.  As  they  went  out,  they  clustered  round  the 
porch,  and  one  of  their  number  proposed  a  vote  of  thanks 
to  my  wife  and  myself  ;  it  was  readily  seconded,  and  carried 
with  cheers  ;  and  then,  amid  cheers  and  waving  of  hats 
and  hands,  our  dear  friends  of  the  committee  left  us,  and 
they  left  behind  the  benediction  of  their  simple-minded 
loyalty,  their  hopefulness,  their  helpfulness,  and  their 
prayers. 

As  a  token  of  the  bond  of  our  common  work,  I  designed 
a  badge  for  the  members  of  the  Good  Friday  Committee. 
It  was  in  the  form  of  a  Maltese  or  eight-pointed  cross. 
The  eight  points  represented  the  eight  Beatitudes  :  here, 
then,  was  the  cross  lying  within  the  circle  of  the  Beatitudes. 
The  cross — the  highest  symbol  of  self-sacrificing  love — had 
too  often  been  employed  as  the  emblem  of  persecuting 
bigotry.  It  was  needful  to  remind  the  Church,  and  the 
Knights  of  Malta  set  up  their  symbol  to  do  so,  that  the 
cross  ought  to  be  carried  in  the  Spirit  of  Christ.  Tp  make 
this  clear,  our  badge  bore  monograms  which  represented 
the  initials  of  the  leading  words  in  the  Beatitudes.  Happi- 
ness, we  reminded  ourselves,  does  not  lie  in  merely  bearing 
the  name  of  Christ,  but  in  being  filled  with  the  spirit  of 
Christ.  On  the  other  side  of  the  badge  we  had  the  XP, 
the  monogram  of  Christ,  and  the  words  Beati  in  Christo 
(Xto).  Thus  the  badge  claimed  our  loyalty  to  our  Lord, 
not  in  letter  only  but  in  spirit. 


GOOD  FRIDAY 


157 


The  Beatitudes  became  the  little  canticle  of  our  meetings. 
Whenever  we  met  for  prayer,  we  united  in  saying  together 
the  Beatitudes. 

This  chapter  is  a  tribute  to  the  loyal-heartedness  of 
the  body  of  men  who  worked  with  me  as  brothers  in  enter- 
prise, and  perhaps  the  best  way  in  which  I  can  close  this 
chapter  is  by  adding  here  the  little  record  which  we  issued 
as  a  souvenir  when  we  had  completed  the  full  twenty-one 
years  of  joint  work.  The  souvenir  gives  the  memorial 
letter  which  I  wrote  as  a  record  and  a  farewell  to  my 
much-loved  comrades  :  it  gave  also  the  list  of  places  which 
were  included  in  our  periodical  excursions.  Those  who 
know  what  bonds  of  confidence  are  created  and  strength- 
ened by  common  work  and  common  travel,  will  realize 
how  strong  was  the  tie  which  bound  us  together  and  how 
affectionate  are  the  memories  which  remain. 

Here,  also,  I  gladly  record  the  fact  that  the  Good  Friday 
Service  is  still  held,  and  that  it  was  conducted  this  year 
(19 1 6)  under  conditions  which  seem  to  promise  its  happy 
continuance.  I  am  grateful  to  those  whose  fostering  care 
has  made  this  possible,  and  I  can  only  hope  and  pray  that 
future  vicars  of  Leeds  will  show  the  same  loving  care 
which  the  present  vicar  (Dr.  Bickersteth)  has  shown  in  the 
enterprise,  and  that  future  bishops  of  Ripon  will  support 
it  with  the  same  kind  sympathy  which  the  present  bishop 
(Dr.  Drury)  has  given. 


158       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


GOOD  FRIDAY  MEMORIES,  1 890-1 911 
EXCURSIONS  OF  THE  GOOD  FRIDAY  COMMITTEE. 


The  Palace,  Ripon 
The  Palace,  Ripon 
Liverpool 
Brussels 
The  Palace 
Cambridge 
Oxford 
The  Palace 
Windsor 
Belfast 
The  Palace, 
London 
Chester 
The  Palace 
York 
Ryther 


Ripon 


Ripon 


Ripon 


Ripon 


July  19th,  1890. 
July  1893. 
Summer  1895. 
June  4.th  to  7th,  1897. 
1899. 

May  26th,  1900. 
June  29th,  1901. 
July  26th,  1902. 
August  15th,  1903. 
June  3rd  to  6th,  1904. 
July  15  th,  1905. 

July  7th,  1906. 

August  31st,  1907. 

June  27th,  1908. 

July  27th,  1911. 
September  1 6th,  1 9 1 1 , 


TO  THE  MEMBERS  OF  THE  GOOD 
FRIDAY  COMMITTEE 

On  the  4th  of  April,  1890,  we  made  our  first  attempt 
to  have  a  Special  Service  for  Men  on  Good  Friday  Even- 
ing ;  we  met  that  night  in  the  Drill  Hall ;  the  Drill  Hall 
was  not  provided  with  seats,  so  we  were  obliged  to  bring  in 
boards  and  build  up  rough  benches  as  best  we  could.  In 
this  the  vigorous  earnestness  of  the  members  of  the 
committee  showed  itself  ;  and  difficulties  were  overcome. 

In  the  next  year,  1891,  we  met  in  the  Town  Hall  for 
the  first  time,  and  since  that  date  our  service  has  been  held 
there.  We  tried  an  experiment  in  1891,  however,  which 
we  did  not  repeat ;  before  the  service  in  the  Town  Hall, 


GOOD  FRIDAY 


59 


we  held  a  service  at  the  Miners'  Hall.  Good  Friday  that 
year  fell  upon  March  27th,  the  day  after  my  Jubilee  of 
life  ;  so  that  I  was  fifty  when  we  held  our  first  Town  Hall 
service,  and  I  was  seventy  when  we  held  our  last  service  this 
year. 

I  am  glad  to  know  that  my  successor  will  continue  to 
hold  the  service,  if  we  can  secure  permission  to  use  the 
Town  Hall.  I  am  glad  for  every  reason  ;  we  should  not 
like  to  see  the  service  discontinued  ;  it  has,  we  venture  to 
believe,  been  a  means  of  doing  good  ;  it  stands,  moreover, 
for  ideas  which  we  wish  to  keep  before  the  minds  of  men. 
It  is  the  witness  that  there  are  great  truths  and  abiding  facts 
connected  with  Good  Friday.  To  commemorate  a  birthday 
is  common  enough  ;  to  commemorate  a  day  of  death  is  in 
the  history  of  religions  unusual  ;  no  note  of  triumph  is 
heard  when  a  great  leader  or  teacher  passes  away,  but  the 
death  of  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord  awakens  a  whole  series  of 
thoughts  which  have  brought  to  the  Christian  world  a  teach- 
ing more  noble  and  more  permanent  than  surrounds  the 
cradle  of  great  men.  The  world  is  not  to  be  won  except 
by  the  Cross  ;  it  is  only  when  we  learn  to  die  that  we  learn 
to  live  ;  it  is  only  when  we  lose  ourselves  that  we  truly 
find  ourselves.  This  truth  enters  into  the  heart  of  Christian 
teaching  ;  it  is  symbolized  in  our  Baptism  ;  it  is  continually 
commemorated  in  Holy  Communion  ;  we  are  buried  with 
Christ  in  Baptism  ;  we  avow  ourselves  partakers  of  His 
death  in  the  Holy  Communion. 

Thus  the  death  of  Christ  becomes  the  witness  of  an 
abiding  fact  ;  the  death  was  a  fact  in  history,  but  it  becomes 
an  abiding  fact,  for  it  needs  to  be  a  fact  in  our  spiritual 


i6o       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


history  also  ;  only  as  we  share  this  great  sacrificial  spirit  of 
Christ  do  we  fulfil  the  end  and  purpose  of  our  Creator  ; 
for  we  can  only  reach  the  highest  by  sharing  the  spirit  of 
the  highest,  and  the  spirit  of  the  highest  is  love,  and  sacrifice 
of  self  for  love's  sake  is  the  supreme  test  and  witness  on 
earth  of  the  Spirit  of  Love. 

We,  as  a  cornmittee,  have  represented  varying  schools 
of  thought  ;  some  members  have  been  connected  with 
churches  which  might  be  called  High  ;  some  with  those 
which  might  be  called  Low  ;  and  others  moderate  and 
others  broad.  But  by  whatever  name  the  world  might 
call  us,  we  were  united  in  the  desire  of  glorifying  Christ 
by  proclaiming  the  power  of  His  Cross,  and  by  carrying  it 
in  the  spirit  which  He  taught  and  showed. 

And  so,  the  badge  which  we  have  worn  for  many  years 
past  has  expressed  this  principle.  The  Cross  of  Christ 
carried  in  the  Spirit  of  Christ.  Too  often  the  Cross  has 
been  uplifted  in  the  world  in  a  spirit  the  very  opposite  of 
that  of  our  Lord.  It  has  been  lifted  up  in  arrogance,  and 
in  pride  ;  it  has  been  held  aloft  as  the  victim  writhed  and 
perished  under  the  persecuting  hand  of  cruel  and  Christless 
men  ;  it  has  been  clung  to  as  a  charm  ;  it  has  been  saluted 
as  a  banner  on  the  battlefield  ;  its  original  value  and  virtue 
has  been  forgotten  ;  worldly  thoughts  and  ambitions  have 
overlaid  its  first  beautiful  significance  ;  but  through  all  the 
perversions  and  ignorances  which  have  grown  around  it, 
there  have  been  men  and  women  who  held  to  the  spiritual 
principles  which  it  expressed  ;  these  found  the  inner  joy 
which  comes  to  Christlike  souls,  who  have  been  able  to 
say,  "  I  live,  yet  not  I,  but  Christ  liveth  in  me." 


GOOD  FRIDAY 


Our  Badge  is  designed  to  keep  alive  this  truth,  that  the 
Cross  is  to  be  carried  in  the  Spirit  of  Christ,  for  thus  only 
will  the  Beatitude  of  the  Cross  be  realized.  So  we  took  the 
dear  words  of  our  Lord,  those  which  tell  us  what  con- 
stitutes the  foundation  of  inward  happiness  ;  the  Beatitudes 
became  the  little  canticle  of  our  meetings,  and  when  we 
sought  to  gather  together  men  to  hear  the  Story  of  Divine 
Love,  we  knew  that  we  were  striving  to  bring  them  to  that 
joy  which  is  within — the  joy  not  of  outward  possessions, 
but  of  that  disposition  of  soul  which  could  find  gladness 
independent  of  earthly  conditions,  and  which  in  the  con- 
sciousness that  God's  love  shone  all  through  life  could 
understand  that  there  was  a  gladness  in  sacrifice  as  v/ell  as 
in  success,  and  could,  therefore,  enter  intelligently  and 
heartily  into  that  exclamation  of  St.  Paul,  "  God  forbid 
that  I  should  glory,  save  in  the  Cross  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  by  whom  the  world  is  crucified  unto  me,  and  1  unto 
the  world." 

The  only  way,  dear  friends,  to  live  in  the  world  is  to 
live  with  hearts,  above  the  world  ;  and  the  only  way  to  live 
above  the  world  without  conceit  or  cynicism  is  to  live  in 
the  Spirit  of  Him  Who  loved  us  and  gave  Himself 
for  us. 

I  have  put  down  these  thoughts,  as  they  express — though 
lamely — the  aim  which  has  been  ours  in  the  mission  work 
to  which  we  have  put  our  hands  for  more  than  twenty 
years.  We  have  thought  together  of  Christ's  character  and 
of  the  Love  which  inspired  it,  of  Him  who  saved  others, 
not  Himself  ;  we  have  sought  to  explore  the  heart  of  this 
happiness  which  was  stronger  than  shame  and  pain  ;  we 

M 


1 62       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


have  marked  the  consistency  of  His  Love  in  utterance  and 
in  action  ;  we  have  seen  the  difference  between  the  Cross 
met  with  petulant  resentment  and  the  Cross  carried  in  love  ; 
we  have  noted  the  Cross  as  the  sign  of  the  victory  of  good, 
as  the  symbol  of  spiritual  freedom,  changing  the  attitude  of 
the  world  towards  suffering  ;  we  have  touched  on  the  power 
of  that  Cross  in  the  history  of  mankind  ;  we  have  seen  how 
it  tests  character,  and  humbles  and  elevates  the  soul,  banish- 
ing the  evil  dreams  of  sin  and  unfolding  the  all-embracing, 
all-sustaining  power  of  love  ;  and  lastly,  we  have  marked 
the  loyalty  of  Christ's  love  to  man,  and  we  have  felt  that 
the  Cross  is  a  challenge  and  call  to  our  loyalty  to  Him 
who  revolutionized  the  world  by  the  revelation  of  the 
Father's  Love. 

These  have  been  some  of  our  thoughts — may  He  who 
lived  them  and  inspired  them  enable  us  all  to  live  in 
Him,  and  to  breathe  forth  the  beatitude  of  His  presence 
wherever  we  go. 

This  little  preface  to  a  souvenir  of  our  meetings  I  write 
for  you,  my  dear  brothers  in  Christ,  who  for  twenty-one 
years  have  given  your  time,  your  work,  your  prayers,  your 
patience  and  your  love  to  an  enterprise  which  has  been  dear 
to  us  all  and  has  bound  us  together  in  the  realization  of  a 
love  which  change  cannot  disturb  and  which  death  cannot 
destroy. 

W.  BOYD  CARPENTER. 

6  The  Little  Cloisters, 

Westminster,  S.W. 

Christmas,  191 1. 


GOOD  FRIDAY 


CHRIST  IN  THE  SPIRIT  OF  CHRIST. 

THE  BADGE  MEANS 

O.N   ONE  SIDE  

XP(R),  /.  e.  the  first  two  Greek  letters  of  the  name  Christ. 
Be.iti  in  Xto.  i.e.  Blessed  in  Christ. 
On  the  other — 

Four  Monograms,  viz  : 

1.  PHMC.    Poor — Heaven.    Mourn — Comforted. 

2.  MEHF.    Meek— Earth.    Hunger— Filled. 

3.  MPG.       Merciful— Mercy.    Pure— God. 

4.  PCPRK.  Peacemaker— Children.    Persecuted  for 

Righteousness — Kingdom. 

The  Badge  thus  reminds  us  of  the  Eight  Beatitudes  (Matt. 
V.  1-9).  It  tells  again  who  are  truly  blessed.  Happiness 
does  not  lie  in  bearing  the  name  of  Christ,  but  in  being  filled 
with  the  Spirit  of  Christ  (Rom.  viii.  9). 

Those  who  wear  this  Badge  bind  themselves  to  seek  to  make 
Christ  in  all  things  pre-eminent  (Col.  i.  18),  and  to  begin  to  do 
so  by  seeking  to  make  the  Spirit  of  Christ  the  pre-eminent  power 
in  their  spirits.  They  will  not  be  content  to  do  the  work  of 
Christ  unless  they  do  it  in  the  Spirit  of  Christ. 

It  is  suggested  that  those  who  wear  this  Badge  should 
(i)  repeat  to  themselves  every  week  the  Eight  Beatitudes,  adding 
a  pr.iyer  for  the  Holy  Spirit's  help  to  enable  them  to  live  in  the 
Spirit  ot  Christ  ;  (2)  remember  one  another  at  Holy  Communion 
once  a  month . 


FOUR-FOOTED  FRIENDSHIP 


It  is  ill  writing  one's  reminiscences,  if  one  can  only 
chronicle  human  affairs.  Man's  life,  no  doubt,  is  social, 
and  the  interplay  of  mutual  influences,  thoughts  and 
emotions  contributes  to  its  interest  ;  but  man  is  surrounded 
by  creatures  of  humbler  creation,  as  we  say  ;  and  man's 
treatment  of  these  creatures  measures  his  character,  and 
they  in  their  turn  influence  his  moral  growth.  Professor 
Huxley  used  to  say  that  he  respected  the  house  of  which 
the  cat  was  an  honoured  inmate  ;  he  felt  that  a  certain 
largeness  of  humane  feeling  was  indicated  by  the  affection 
and  care  bestowed  upon  the  harmless,  necessary  cat.  How- 
ever this  may  be,  I  can  chronicle  the  way  in  which  a  cat 
claimed  and  won  a  place — yes,  a  very  kindly  place,  in  my 
regard. 

Betty — I  called  her  so — Betty  was  not  beautiful  ;  she 

could  not  claim  admiration  for  her  long  silky  hair,  for  her 

brilliant  colouring  or  her  alluring  eyes.    She  had  no  record 

of  infantile  attractions  on  which  she  could  rely  ;  she  did 

not  come  to  us  as  a  fluffy  round  ball,  full  of  fascinating 

kittenish  ways,  hunting  some  rolling   thing  or  prettily 

entangling  herself  in  a  ball  of  string.    She  had  no  claim  of 

young,  graceful  movements  or  mature  beauty  on  which  to 

rely  for  her  maintenance.    She  just  came  to  us — how,  I  do 
164 


FOUR-FOOTED  FRIENDSHIP  165 


not  know  ;  in  fact,  she  planted  herself  upon  us  without 
invitation  or  apology.  And  she  was  not  beautiful  ;  she 
was  just  commonplace — a  grey  tabby  cat,  and  not  fair  to 
look  upon  when  measured  by  other  tabbies  ;  she  was  lean, 
grey  and  unkempt  in  appearance.  Yet,  with  all  her  dis- 
advantages, she  won  an  established  position  among  us  ;  her 
quiet  persistency,  her  quiet  assumption  that  we  could  not 
refuse  her  hospitality  ;  her  faith  in  our  goodness  was  a 
subtle  and  successful  kind  of  flattery,  and  we  succumbed  ; 
and  Betty  became  an  inmate  of  our  house. 

I  was  then  at  50  Highbury  Hill — the  house  I  occupied 
when  I  was  Vicar  of  St.  James's,  Holloway — and  Betty 
became  by  degrees  my  study  companion.  Perhaps  the 
children  were  too  noisy  and  too  demonstrative  in  their 
attentions  ;  the  dining-room  had  attractions,  no  doubt,  but 
the  nurseries  were  too  vibrant  with  startling  activities  ; 
there  was  peace  in  the  study,  and  so  Betty  found  her  way 
to  the  study  and  was  my  comrade  while  I  read  or  wrote. 
She  soon  discovered  the  cosiest  corner  in  which  to  repose  ; 
she  selected  the  one  easy  chair,  and  curled  herself  up  in  it 
with  calm  dignity  ;  she  had  appropriated  it  as  her  own,  and 
had  I  been  never  so  desirous  of  lounging  irt  it,  I  believe  I 
should  never  have  dared  to  assert  my  claim.  To  do  so 
would  have  seemed  to  have  infringed  sovereign  and  well- 
established  rights.  In  reposeful  comfort,  therefore,  Betty 
yawned  and  stretched,  curled  up  and  slept  in  the  soft  arm- 
chair. I  can  hear  the  critic  say  :  "  And  you  really  tolerated 
this  utterly  selfish  conduct  ?  "  Dear  critic,  I  did  ;  call  me 
weak,  if  you  will  ;  but  bethink  you,  Betty  was  a  refugee 
who  sought  my  protection  and  hospitality.    She  dreaded 


1 66       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


the  children  ;  but  even  more  she  dreaded  the  onslaughts 
of  Charley.  Let  me  explain  :  "  Charley  "  was  my  aunt's 
dog.  She  had  come  to  keep  house  for  me,  and  she  could 
not  be  parted  from  Charley.  Charley,  to  my  unsympathetic 
mind,  was  a  most  detestable  dog  ;  he  was  by  way  of  being 
an  English  terrier,  but  I  doubted  the  purity  of  his  pedigree  ; 
he  was  broad-set,  brawny,  self-indulgent,  arrogant  ;  he 
would  tolerate  no  rival  ;  cats  he  regarded  as  belonging  to 
a  despised  race  ;  they  were  to  be  hunted,  harassed,  chased 
and  chivied  wherever  they  were  found.  So  Charley  at  once 
declared  war  upon  Betty,  and  the  only  sanctuary  open  to 
Betty  was  my  study.  There  she  sought  and  found  peace  ; 
there  Charley  never  came  ;  and  there,  there  was  to  be  found 
an  inoffensive  and  quiet  creature,  who  welcomed  her  and 
allowed  her  the  choice  of  the  most  comfortable  chair.  From 
the  storm  and  turmoil  of  the  house,  and  from  the  outrageous 
persecutions  of  Charley,  Betty  sought  and  found  an  asylum 
in  my  study. 

And  Betty  became  very  companionable.  At  first  she 
was  content  to  slumber  in  my  armchair  ;  but  after  a  time 
she  began  to  show  an  interest  in  me  ;  her  interest  then 
grew  to  what  I  may  call  a  grateful  affection  ;  and  she  used 
to  descend  from  the  chair,  leap  upon  my  writing-table 
and  put  out  a  timid  and  appealing  paw,  as  much  as  to  say  : 
"  We  are  companions  in  misfortune,  and  we  are  happy  in 
this  quiet  refuge."  If  I  continued  writing,  she  would  pat 
my  pen  and  demand  my  attention.  I  soon  understood  her : 
she  wanted  to  be  talked  to  and  to  be  petted  ;  so  I  would 
stroke  her  and  talk  soothing  nothings  to  her.  She  seemed 
to  enjoy  it  all,  and  was  reluctant  to  leave  me.    Then  I 


FOUR-FOOTED  FRIENDSHIP  167 


would  say  :  "  Now,  Betty,  that  is  enough  ;  I  have  work  to 
do,  and  you  must  go  back  to  the  chair."  She  soon  under- 
stood, and  would  be  content  if  once  or  twice  in  the 
morning  she  might  jump  on  the  table  and  be  petted  and 
stroked  and  talked  to  ;  then  she  would  gravely  and  grace- 
fully retire  to  her  slumbers.  She  was  only  an  ugly, 
uninteresting  tabby  ;  but  she  had  affection,  and  she  showed 
a  real  interest  in  the  man  who  stood  to  her  as  protector  and 
comrade. 

Probably  the  sad  loneliness  of  that  time  heightened  my 
sense  of  Betty's  companionship.  There  were  moments  in 
which  I  felt  that  she  and  I  were  the  victims  of  common 
misfortunes  ;  we  were  both  lonely,  and  we  both  desired 
quiet.  So  a  subtle  sympathy  drew  us  together.  If  you 
talk  to  an  animal  much,  and  give  it  your  trust  and  tell  it 
your  confidences,  you  humanize  it  by  degrees,  and  a  bond 
of  common  feeling  will  grow  up  between  it  and  you.  I 
know  that  I  felt  sympathy  with  Betty  ;  I  think  that  she 
had,  in  some  sub-conscious  fashion,  some  sympathy  with 
me. 

"  Cats  have  no  personal  attachment.  Their  love  is  for 
places,  not  for  people."  This  is  the  common  opinion,  I 
believe.  It  was  expressed,  I  remember,  when  I  had  to 
migrate  from  Highbury  Hill  to  Paddington.  "  You  will 
never  take  Betty  with  you,"  some  one  said  ;  "  she  will 
remain  with  the  house  ;  she  will  never  accept  a  changed 
residence."  So  the  opinion  went.  However,  I  believed  in 
Betty's  attachment,  and  I  took  her  with  us  when  we  moved. 
1  brought  her  to  my  study  in  Queen's  Gardens  ;  the  old 
chair  was  there  ;   the  writing-table  was  there,  and  I  was 


1 68       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


there  ;  and  Betty  accepted  all  ;  she  showed  no  signs  of 
uneasiness.  She  slept  in  the  chair  ;  she  leaped  on  the  table 
for  her  mid-morning  caress  ;  she  patted  my  pen  till  I  put 
it  down  and  stroked  her  and  talked  to  her.  The  change  of 
house  did  not  trouble  her.  She  had  what  she  wanted  and 
she  was  content.  Like  human  beings,  she  found  quiet  and 
comfort  in  kindness  and  in  familiar  things  ;  so  the  old 
habits  of  friendly  intercourse  were  continued  as  before  ;  in 
the  new  house  the  attachments  were  the  same  as  they  had 
been  in  the  old. 

Do  you  wonder  that  I  grew  fond  of  Betty  ?  Do  you 
wonder  that  I  felt  for  her  in  the  hard,  harsh  days  when 
Charley  and  the  children  terrified  her  .''  Do  you  wonder 
that  in  those  days  I  commemorated  Betty  in  the  following 
fashion  ? — 

POOR  BETTY. 

Poor  Betty,  with  your  soft  warm  fur 

And  gentle  loving  ways. 
You  only  of  the  household  now 

Bear  memory  of  past  days. 

The  cosy  fender  was  your  own, 

Where  peacefully  you  purred, 
There  one  fond  hand  would  stroke  your  coat. 

And  speak  the  kindly  word. 

Then  you  would  rise  and  arch  your  back, 

And  give  contented  yawn  ; 
Or  rub  your  cheek  confidingly 

As  nearer  you  were  drawn. 

Or  you  would  bound  the  staircase  up, 

And  purr  and  leap  before 
The  steps  of  her  who  welcomed  you 

Within  her  chamber  door. 


FOUR-FOOTED  FRIENDSHIP  169 


And  you  would  sit  beside  her  hand 

And  peer  within  the  glass  ; 
Or  leap  upon  her  shoulder 

And  round  her  fair  neck  pass. 

And  she,  she  loved  you  well,  poor  Bet, 

And  watched  your  kittens  play. 
For  she  loved  all  joyous  guileless  things. 

With  her  bright,  pure  heart  of  May. 

But  now  the  warm  sweet  love  of  home. 

Has  passed  from  out  the  door. 
The  children  all  are  scattered 

And  the  mistress  gone  before. 

Strange  faces  round  the  kitchen  glance, 

Strange  hands  light  up  the  stove. 
Strange  voices  in  the  house  are  heard, 

Strange  feet  on  stairways  move. 

The  hard,  rough  dog  your  peace  assails. 

And  wearies  you  with  chase, 
Snatches  your  best-loved  morsel. 

And  curls  up  in  your  place. 

Your  presence  meets  with  doubtful  looks, 

No  welcome  voice  you  hear. 
No  gentle  hand  caresses  you, 

Or  fondly  draws  you  near. 

Poor  Betty,  you  are  lonely  now, 

Ah  !  Betty  !  so  am  I  ! 
You  crave  to  meet  a  touch  of  love. 

Poor  Betty,  so  do  I  ! 

Yet  come,  poor  Bet,  sit  near  me  now  ; 

We  both  may  take  some  ease  ; 
Enjoy  this  quiet,  foe-free  hour, 

Be  still,  and  purr  in  peace. 

"  George  "  was,  for  a  season,  the  chief  personage  in  our 
house  at  Ripon.    From  the  hour  when  he  first  came  to  us 


I70       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


till  the  day  when  he  breathed  his  last,  he  was  unique  and 
supreme,  the  centre  of  attraction. 

George — when  he  came  to  us — was  a  dear,  round,  fluffy 
ball  of  a  creature,  who  could  lie  on  one's  hand— a  wrinkled- 
faced,  black-nosed  pug  he  was — a  delight,  a  curiosity,  a 
charm.  He  grew  to  be  an  institution.  Let  little  people 
learn  how  important  they  may  become.  If  they  knew  the 
story  of  George's  powerful  reign,  they  might  take  courage. 
The  early  days  of  George's  life  were  days  of  affectionate 
admiration.  All  sorts  of  sweet  and  kindly  nonsense  were 
poured  into  his  ears.  He  learned  to  take  everything  for 
granted,  and  he  learned  quickly.  The  one  thing  which, 
perhaps,  he  was  slow  to  learn  was  that  church  was  a  pro- 
hibited area.  We  thought  we  had  taught  him  this  fairly 
well,  before  we  took  him  to  Niton,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
where  we  had  hired  a  house  for  a  few  weeks  in  the  summer. 
But  whether  George  thought  that  the  Isle  of  Wight  was 
under  different  laws  from  Ripon,  or  whether  he  thought 
that  laws  were  suspended  during  vacation  time,  I  cannot 
tell  ;  but  the  fact  is  that,  though  we  thought  him  left  at 
home  in  safe  security,  he  pursued  us  to  church.  When  he 
arrived  at  the  church  door  he  was  smitten,  I  suppose,  with 
modesty  or  influenced  by  reverence  ;  for  he  did  not  search 
us  out  in  our  seat.  He  contented  himself  with  taking 
refuge  under  a  seat  near  the  church  door.  How  long  he 
would  have  remained  there  in  decorous  silence  I  cannot 
say  ;  but  an  accident  cut  short  his  laudable  quietude.  It 
was  a  hot  summer  day,  and  drowsy  insects  were  on  the 
wing.  Among  them  an  active  wasp  intruded  into  the 
church,  and  dived  down  to  where  George  sat  with  quiet  and 


FOUR-FOOTED  FRIENDSHIP 


patient  dignity.  I  fear  that  the  wasp  was  guilty  of  some 
assault  ;  for  George  on  a  sudden  roused  some  sleepy 
members  of  the  congregation,  as  he  dashed  precipitately 
from  the  church.  This,  I  believe,  was  George's  solitary 
act  of  transgression  of  the  established  order  of  Sunday  and 
church. 

George  was  an  imitative  creature.  At  one  time  we  had 
two  great  St.  Bernard  dogs,  yclept  Dante  and  Gemma — - 
Dan  and  Gem  for  short.  They  were  fine  creatures — good- 
tempered  and  friendly  ;  but  they  aroused,  I  think,  some 
jealousy  in  George's  breast.  He  would  sometimes,  perhaps 
in  play,  but  more  probably,  I  think,  in  resentful  jealousy, 
assail  them  ;  they  bore  it  with  good-natured  toleration  for 
a  time,  but  occasionally,  when  George's  persistence  became 
offensive,  they  would  give  him  a  warning  nip.  In  the 
winter,  when  the  snow  was  on  the  ground,  the  joy  of  the 
St.  Bernard  dogs  was  supreme  ;  they  raced  over  the  land  ; 
they  buried  their  noses  in  the  snow  and  tossed  it  in  the  air. 
Then  a  ludicrous  sight  might  have  been  seen.  George 
would  not  be  behindhand  in  any  performance  which 
attracted  attention  ;  but  the  spectacle  of  George  trying  to 
bury  his  snub  nose  in  the  snow,  then  ridiculously  endeavour- 
ing to  toss  it  over  his  head,  was  a  spectacle  of  mirth — 
indeed  of  a  mirth  which  came  close  to  contempt.  It  is  to 
provoke  an  amusement  perilously  near  to  disdain,  when 
creatures  attempt  to  do  something  which  is  beyond  their 
nature  or  their  skill,  I  think  we  understood  Michel's 
feelings  about  David,  when  we  saw  George  trying  to  sport 
with  the  snow. 

George  was  a  trial  in  one  serious  matter  !    We  kept 


172       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


sheep  on  the  land  in  Ripon,  and  gradually  there  came  in 
complaints  about  George.  He  was  worrying  the  sheep. 
At  first  we  paid  little  attention  to  these  complaints.  It 
seemed  absurd  to  suppose  that  a  small  dog  like  George 
could  do  much  damage  to  sheep  which  were  three  or  four 
times  his  size  ;  but  the  complaints  became  more  frequent 
and  more  serious,  till  at  last  I  was  told  that  George  was 
responsible  for  the  death  of  no  fewer  than  seven  sheep. 
It  had  become  a  very  grave  matter.  However  much  we 
liked  George  or  were  diverted  by  his  pranks,  it  was  out  of 
the  question  that  we  could  keep  him  to  prey  upon  our 
sheep.  It  was  difficult  to  bring  the  matter  home  to  George. 
Punishment,  if  not  clearly  connected  with  the  offence,  was 
useless.  At  last,  however,  my  opportunity  came.  As  I  was 
walking  one  day  up  the  drive,  George  suddenly  made  for 
the  sheep,  who  fled,  frightened,  from  their  foe.  1  pursued  : 
I  caught  George  ;  with  the  help  of  the  bailiff  a  sheep  was 
seized,  and  then  we  bound  George  tight  to  the  sheep's  side. 
When  we  had  made  the  bonds  firm  and  fast,  we  let  the  ill- 
matched  pair  go  :  George  was  compelled  to  go  as  the  sheep 
returned  to  its  comrades  ;  but  I  followed,  and  I  chased 
George  and  the  sheep  in  and  out  among  the  other  sheep  till 
George  was  faint  and  tired.  Then  I  gave  him,  after  I 
loosed  him,  a  goodly  thrashing. 

Thus  George  was  cured.  He  had  been  exposed  to  three 
painful  experiences  :  fear  was  his  when  he  found  himself 
helplessly  bound,  dragged  and  chased  among  the  flying 
and  disordered  sheep  ;  disgust  was  his,  for  the  smell  of  the 
sheep  was  odious  to  him  :  but  he  was  tied  so  fast  that  he 
was  compelled  to  sniff  up  the  oily  odour  of  the  sheepskin, 


FOUR-FOOTED  FRIENDSHIP  173 

and  lastly  came  pain  when  his  beating  reminded  him  of  his 
offence.  George  was  cured  :  only  once  afterwards  did  I  see 
a  sign  that  the  chasing  instinct  was  not  wholly  gone.  Once 
he  made  a  half-start,  as  though  he  would  pursue  the  sheep ; 
but  a  word  of  warning  checked  the  impulse,  and  ever  after 
George  left  the  sheep  in  peace. 

This  was  George's  great  offence,  and  we  were  all  much 
relieved  when  it  was  purged.  It  is  ill  chronicling  the  faults 
of  one's  pets  :  it  is  a  pleasanter  task  to  record  their  amusing 
tricks  and  their  virtues.  At  dinner  George  was  a  constant 
source  of  interested  observation.  I  am  afraid  that  I  must 
admit  that  George  was  self-indulgent  and  greedy  ;  but  out 
of  his  greediness  came  one  of  his  accomplishments.  I 
would  place  a  piece  of  biscuit  a  little  way  from  the  edge  of 
the  table  :  George,  standing  on  his  hind  legs,  would  try  to 
reach  it.  If  too  far  for  his  mouth,  he  would  try  to  sweep 
it  near  with  his  paw.  As  he  succeeded  I  placed  the  piece 
further  and  further  from  the  edge,  till  at  length  George, 
educated  by  failure  and  success,  was  able  to  sweep  a  fairly 
wide  area  of  the  table  with  his  extended  paw.  With  age 
George  grew  fatter  and  the  exertion  of  biscuit  hunting  was 
too  much.  He  loved  ease,  and  he  would  sit  before  the  fire, 
groaning  with  a  kind  of  apoplectic  enjoyment  of  the  warmth 
and  comfort. 

But  if  George  had  small  accomplishments  and  some 
faults,  he  had  one  great  virtue — magnanimity.  This  was 
displayed  in  one  great  and  conspicuous  instance.  We  had 
at  this  time  a  handsome  blue  Persian  cat — a  stately  creature 
whom  we  called  Sultan.  Sultan  was  more  like  a  dog  than 
a  cat  in  his  habits  and  temper.    He  never  scratched  unless 


174       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


he  were  attacked  :  he  never  showed  his  claws  when  an 
accident  occurred  which  might  have  provoked  a  nervous 
reaction.  I  once  trod  upon  him  in  the  dark  upon  the  stairs  : 
he  only  moved  himself  away  with  quiet  dignity,  he  showed 
no  ill  feeling  :  he  understood  us  and  he  knew  the  difference 
between  a  mishap  and  an  unkindness.  Sultan  was  master 
in  his  own  house  :  he  had  his  own  establishment  ;  but  he 
never  allowed  one  of  the  kittens  to  come  beyond  the  pre- 
scribed limits  :  if  one  thrust  its  little  nose  round  the  edge 
of  the  blue  baize  door  which  led  to  the  kitchen,  it  was 
cuffed  and  sent  back  by  Sultan.  It  was  with  regard  to 
Sultan  that  George  displayed  his  magnanimity.  George 
and  Sultan  were  rivals.  Sultan  was  privileged  and  lived  a 
good  part  of  his  time  in  my  study  :  he  was  free  of  all  the 
living  rooms  ;  this  was  pain  and  grief  to  George,  who  could 
tolerate  no  rival  in  our  affections,  but  in  spite  of  jealousy 
George  was  magnanimous. 

One  cold  winter  night  in  December,  when  the  snow  was 
on  the  ground,  I  was  awakened  by  George's  barks.  George 
slept  in  the  outer  hall.  I  listened  to  the  barking ;  I  hoped 
that  it  would  soon  cease,  but  George  continued  to  bark  at 
intervals,  and  at  last  it  was  clear  that  I  must  go  down 
and  see  what  was  the  matter.  I  descended  the  stairs  and  1 
opened  the  door  of  the  outer  hall.  George  frisked  with 
delight  and  wagged  a  welcoming  tail.  "  George,"  I  said, 
"you  are  a  humbug  :  you  only  wanted  some  one  to  come 
down  to  talk  to  you  ;  there's  nothing  wrong  :  you  are  a 
humbug  ;  go  to  sleep,  and  don't  disturb  us  again."  Having 
said  this  in  a  solemn  and  self-assertive  way,  I  began  to  with- 
draw ;  but  George  would  not  have  it.    As  I  began  to  close 


FOUR-FOOTED  FRIENDSHIP  175 


the  door,  he  barked  again,  and  I  had  to  return.  George 
looked  wistful  :  there  was  evidently  something  for  me  to 
do  ;  but  what  it  was  I  could  not  gixess  ;  so,  interrupted  now 
and  then  by  George's  half-barks,  I  returned,  and  then  I 
understood.  Outside  the  front  door  I  heard  the  faint  mew 
of  a  cat.  I  opened  the  hall  door,  and  in  stalked  Sultan, 
proud  and  indifferent,  while  George  gambolled  round  him 
with  delight.  There  was  a  good  fire  burning  in  the  grate, 
to  welcome  the  exile,  who  exchanged  the  snow  and  the 
bitter  cold  without  for  the  warmth  and  shelter. 

George's  barking  was  now  explained.  I  have  little  doubt 
that  his  efforts  resulted  in  the  saving  of  Sultan's  life  ;  but 
Sultan  treated  the  incident  without  emotion  :  it  was  George 
who  indulged  in  manifestations  of  joy.  In  this  there  seems 
to  lie  a  parable. 

George  received  his  name  because  he  had  the  air  of 
the  first  gentleman  in  Europe,  and  George  retained  his  fine 
manners  to  the  end.  Even  when  he  was  ill  and  under  the 
veterinary  surgeon's  care,  his  scrupulous  maintenance  of 
polite  usage  impressed  his  host.  There  was  pathos  in  the 
way  George  preserved  his  dignity  to  the  end. 

George  was  succeeded  by  Prempeh,  a  lithe  and  active 
dachshund.  Prempeh  was  light  brown  in  colour  :  he  moved 
like  lightning  :  he  early  showed  his  love  of  comfort,  and 
his  power  of  adapting  himself  to  the  ways  of  the  house 
was  remarkable.  We  determined  to  provide  Prempeh  with 
a  wife,  and  two  candidates  were  sent  to  us  on  approval. 
Prempeh  was  allowed  a  free  choice  :  it  was  soon  made. 
After  a  cold  interview  with  one,  a  somewhat  stout  and 
thick-set  animal,  Prempeh  began  the  most  joyous  game 


176       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


with  the  other.  Like  children  they  played,  and  showed 
a  touching  gladness  in  each  other's  society.  So  the  wife 
was  chosen  :  her  name  was  Julia,  but  we  called  her  Ju. 
They  were  a  happy  couple,  almost  inseparable  :  indeed, 
they  formed  a  comradeship  in  wickedness  which  caused 
not  a  little  trouble  ;  for  they  took  to  hunting,  and  Ju 
was  the  instigator  of  every  adventure. 

Near  the  house  was  a  gravel  pit,  which  was  the  happy 
home  of  rabbits.  This  pit  was  the  realm  of  temptation  to 
Prempeh  and  Ju.  Ju,  Eve-like,  was  the  leader.  She  would 
come  to  the  drawing-room,  where  Prempeh  was  reposing  in 
happy  contentment  :  she  would  look  at  him  with  eager  in- 
vitation in  her  wicked  eyes,  and  Prempeh  would  obey.  She 
could  not  carry  on  the  hunting  without  Prempeh's  aid  :  he 
was  smaller,  thinner,  and  more  active  :  it  was  his  part  to 
enter  the  rabbit  holes  and  drive  the  frightened  rabbits  before 
him.  Ju  stationed  herself  at  the  further  outlet,  and  stood 
ready  to  pounce  upon  the  victim  as  it  emerged  into  the  open. 
Such  ardent  hunters  were  the  pair  that  they  literally  cleared 
the  pit  of  rabbits  ;  and  then  came  their  banishment.  The 
instinct  of  hunting  was  too  strong  for  the  couple,  and,  having 
driven  the  rabbits  from  one  ground,  they  extended  their 
researches  and*  depredations  further  afield.  They  invaded 
our  neighbours'  land,  and  soon  complaints  were  made.  The 
havoc  wrought  by  Prempeh  and  Ju  was  more  than  our 
neighbours  could  stand.  To  cure  the  couple  of  the  pro- 
pensity, which  had  become  a  habit,  was  impossible.  Our 
only  resource  was  to  banish  them.  And  so,  with  much 
regret  and  many  an  ache  of  heart,  we  found  a  home  for  our 
dear  little  dachshunds  :  it  was  far  away,  somewhere  in  the 


FOUR-FOOTED  FRIENDSHIP  177 


Shakespeare  country.  I  have  a  photograph  of  the  naughty- 
pair,  which  their  new  and  kind  hosts  sent  us  as  a  remem- 
brance of  two  of  the  happiest,  most  fascinating  and  most 
mischievous  little  dogs  which  ever  delighted  the  hearts  of 
their  owners.  Dear  little  joyous  friends  they  were  :  they 
knew  the  order  of  the  house,  and  they  availed  themselves 
of  every  privilege  which  that  order  offered.  As  soon  as 
the  servants  were  stirring,  the  pair  knew  that  their  chance 
had  come.  They  flew  up  the  stairs  :  they  scratched,  eager 
and  impatient,  at  our  bedroom  door  :  they  would  take  no 
denial.  They  were  admitted  ;  they  leaped  upon  the  bed,  and 
buried  themselves  under  the  eiderdown  quilt.  There  they 
lay  in  happy  warmth.  The  bell  for  chapel  would  sound, 
but  they  did  not  stir  ;  but  the  moment  the  gong  sounded 
they  were  up  and  tore  downstairs.  They  did  not  favour 
religion,  but  they  were  ready  for  breakfast. 

In  pursuit  of  food,  Prempeh  developed  extraordinary 
skill.  I  tried  the  same  plan  which  I  had  tried  with  George. 
I  placed  a  piece  of  biscuit  near  the  edge  of  the  table  : 
Prempeh  could  not,  being  small,  pat  it  with  his  paw  and 
draw  it  within  reach  ;  but  Prempeh,  being  light,  could  leap. 
He  soon  learned  to  leap  and  seize  the  morsel  with  neat 
dexterity.  Gradually  1  increased  the  distance,  till  the 
biscuit  would  be  six  or  seven  inches  from  the  table  edge  ; 
and  Prempeh  would  leap  and  seize  it  with  unerring  aim, 
without  damaging  or  disturbing  anything  on  the  table. 
He  was  a  beautiful  and  clever  dog,  and  it  was  a  sorry  day 
when  we  had  to  part  with  him  and  his  less  nimble  but 
more  naughty  comrade  in  mischief. 

N 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON 

I  NEVER  heard  Frederick  Robertson  preach  :  I  never 

saw  him.    1  his  was  my  loss  ;  but  probably  I  should  not 

have  been  able  to  appreciate  him  :  I  was  too  young,  for 

he  died  when  I  was  twelve  years  of  age.    Mr.  Frederick 

Harrison,  in  his  interesting  letter  to  the  present  Dean  of 

Durham,  says  that,  "  his  appearance,  voice  and  manner  were 

the  very  ideal  of  a  fashionable  preacher."    The  only  other 

description  of  Robertson's   preaching  which  I  have  heard 

was  given  me  by  the  late  Rev.  Canon  iVIoney,  who  was  for 

some  years  Vicar  of  St.  John's,  Deptford.    It  came  about 

in  this  way.    We  were  both  present  at  a  meeting,  the  object 

of  which  I  cannot  recall.    Among  the  speakers  was  one 

who  addressed  us  as  a  man  who  was  thinking  out  a  subject 

and  quietly  giving  us  the  result  of  his  thoughts  :  he  had 

not  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  completely  mastered  his 

subject,  with  its  divisions  and  subdivisions  and  conclusion 

all  clearly  arranged  beforehand  ;  nor  was  it  the  air  of  a  man 

who  is  nervously  anxious  to  say  what  he  has  to  say  and  to 

get  people  to  agree  with  them  then  and  there  :  it  was  rather 

the  air  of  a  man  who  sees  truth  coming  to  him  and  lets 

others  share  it  as  it  comes.    There  was  little  change  in  the 

expression  of  the  face  :  the  gestures  were  few,  and  not  in 

any  sense  dramatic  ;  they  only  added  a  kind  of  occasional 

emphasis  to  what  was  said.    When  he  had  finished  and  an 
178 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON 


179 


opportunity  came,  Canon  Money  turned  to  me  and  said, 
"  That  is  very  like  the  way  Robertson  preached."  1  have 
no  means  of  endorsing  the  view  thus  expressed,  for 
Robertson  was  only  a  name  to  me  :  my  only  acquaintance 
with  him  was  through  that  medium  by  which  he  held 
converse  with  the  whole  world — his  published  works. 

Everyone  knows  how  widespread  was  the  influence  of 
his  sermons — how  they  were  read  by  thousands  who  would 
never  read  ordinary  books  of  divinity  or  the  stately  dis- 
courses of  antiquated  divines  or  the  pompous  reiteration  of 
cant  phrases  which  won  the  title  of  "  sound  "  sermons. 

But  though  I  was  not  privileged  to  know  or  hear 
Robertson,  I  nevertheless  seemed  to  be  brought  near  to 
him  by  family  association.  He  was,  for  a  time,  curate  tc 
my  uncle  Archibald  Boyd,  then  Vicar  of  Christchurch. 
Cheltenham,  and  afterwards  Dean  of  Exeter.  My  aunt 
Fanny  often  stayed  with  her  brother  in  Cheltenham,  and 
through  her  I  heard  much  of  Fred.  Robertson.  He  was 
a  sort  of  hero  to  her,  at  any  rate  for  a  time,  and  she 
would  give  me  vigorous  and  pathetic  sketches  of  the  man 
whom  she  so  greatly  admired. 

She  has  passed  away,  but  among  her  papers  were  found 
a  little  bundle  of  Robertson's  letters.  They  possess  a  varied 
interest.  Some  of  them  were  written  when  he  was  travelling 
abroad,  and  give  pictures  of  his  journeyings  :  some  touch 
on  his  experiences  when  he  was  ministering  at  Oxford  : 
some  allude  to  matters  at  Cheltenham,  and  others  again  to 
his  task  at  Brighton.  Thus,  through  my  aunt,  1  was 
brought  into  closer  touch  with  Robertson  than  otherwise 
would  have  been  possible. 


i8o       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


My  uncle  was,  I  know,  somewhat  troubled  when 
Frederick  Robertson's  Life  first  appeared,  as  it  seemed  to 
suggest  that  there  had  been  a  personal  conflict  or  quarrel 
between  Robertson  and  himself.  This  he  very  emphatically 
denied,  and  I  believe  that  I  am  right  in  saying  that  the 
publishers  were  quite  ready  to  give  Mr.  Boyd  an  oppor- 
tunity of  telling  his  own  story  on  the  subject.  I  do  not, 
however,  think  that  this  ever  was  done.  It  may  therefore 
be  interesting  if  I  set  down  here  one  other  thing  which  came 
from  my  uncle  on  the  subject  of  his  relations  with  Robertson. 

In  reading  these  we  ought,  I  suppose,  to  recall  the 
atmosphere  of  Cheltenham  at  the  time.  The  residents 
were  orthodox,  according  to  the  fashion  of  the  day  ;  and 
many  of  them  possessed  that  sleepy  character  of  intellect 
which  rests  on  words  and  phrases,  and  resents  the  intro,- 
duction  of  any  new  vocabulary  which  might  necessitate 
exertion  of  mind. 

On  one  occasion  Robertson  preached  a  sermon:  I  think 
the  subject  was  our  Lord's  temptation.  The  pews  were 
disturbed  :  something  unlike  what  was  customary  had  been 
said  ;  the  unexpected  had  happened,  and  the  unexpected 
must  be  heresy.  Complaints  were  heard,  and  letters  of 
expostulation  were  addressed  to  the  vicar,  Mr.  Boyd.  He 
held  his  peace  ;  but  a  few  weeks  later,  he  was  preaching  on 
a  kindred  topic,  and  he  set  forth  what  he  felt  to  be  the 
truth  about  our  Lord's  temptation.  When  the  service  was 
over,  and  vicar  and  curate  entered  the  vestry,  Robertson 
turned  to  my  uncle  and,  with  a  light  in  his  face,  said, 
"  Thank  you,  thank  you  ;  you  said  what  I  tried  to  say." 

I  do  not,  of  course,  mean  to  imply  by  this  story  more 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON 


i8i 


than  what  applies  to  the  incident  in  question.  I  do  not 
think  that  there  was,  or  could  have  been,  absolute  intellec- 
tual agreement  between  my  uncle  and  Robertson  on  all  theo- 
logical points  :  I  think  that  their  formulae  would  have  re- 
mained different  on  many  matters  :  they  were  a  generation 
apart.  But  I  think  that  what  really  happened  was  this  :  my 
uncle  was  able,  as  he  listened  to  his  curate,  to  discover  what 
the  congregation  missed,  the  essential  ideas  which  Robertson 
wished  to  express.  The  vicar,  with  greater  experience  and 
longer  practice,  was  able  to  say  in  language  more  consonant 
with  the  thoughts  of  his  people  what  Robertson  really  wished 
to  say.  The  truth  which  was  uppermost  at  the  moment  in 
Robertson's  mind  was  capable  of  being  stated  in  language 
which  would  not  arouse  suspicion.  Further,  it  may  be  said 
without  cynicism  that  the  congregation  would  listen  with 
much  less  keen  scent  for  heresy  to  the  vicar,  whose  ortho- 
doxy was.  taken  for  granted,  than  to  a  curate  about  whose 
orthodoxy  they  were  not  assured.  Whether  this  be  a  true 
account  of  the  matter  or  not,  the  anecdote  is  pleasant,  as  it 
shows  a  magnanimity  on  the  part  of  both  vicar  and  curate. 

Once,  only  once  according  to  my  uncle,  did  any  shadow 
fall  to  chill  the  friendly  feelings  between  Robertson  and 
himself.  There  was  a  time  in  which  my  uncle  admitted 
that  he  became  aware  that  a  certain  aloofness  of  feeling 
had  arisen  between  them.  It 'was  one  of  those  apparently 
causeless  impressions  which  might  contain  the  seed  of  later 
personal  alienation.  It  may  have  had  its  origin  in  some 
heedlessly  repeated  piece  of  gossip  :  the  theological  temper 
of  Cheltenham  at  the  time  was  favourable  for  the  diff"usion 
of  misunderstandings.    When  my  uncle  realized  the  situa- 


1 82       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


tion  he  sought  for  some  way  to  put  an  end  to  it.  The 
chance  of  doing  so  came  to  him  as  he  was  out  walking. 
Suddenly,  as  he  turned  a  corner,  he  encountered  Robertson. 
In  a  moment  there  flashed  upon  him  a  happy  thought. 
He  went  up  to  Robertson  and,  shaking  hands,  he  said, 
"Robertson,  shall  you  and  I  agree  that  Lot's  wife  was 
a  very  foolish  woman  "  For  a  few  seconds  Robertson 
looked  bewildered,  then,  as  the  significance  of  the  question 
broke  upon  his  mind,  his  face  broke  into  smiles  as  he  said, 
"  Certainly,"  From  that  time  forward  there  was  no  looking 
back,  no  brooding  over  insane  fragments  of  gossip,  and  the 
friendliness  of  their  personal  relations  was  unbroken. 

These  things,  of  course,  belong  to  what  we  may  call 
ancient  history.  It  must  be  nearly  seventy  years  since 
Robertson  left  Cheltenham.  It  is  impossible,  I  should 
think,  to  test  the  accuracy  of  every  event  or  incident  which 
marked  Robertson's  life  at  Cheltenham  ;  but  it  seems  only 
right  to  record  anything  which  sheds  a  kindly  light  upon  a 
page  which  has  been,  perhaps,  looked  upon  as  one  of  almost 
unrelieved  blackness. 

The  regard  and  even  affection  which  Robertson  felt 
towards  Mr.  Boyd  is  expressed  with  clearness  and  perfect 
frankness  in  the  following  letter — 

9  MoNTPELiER  Terrace, 
Brighton, 

January  \lth,  1849. 

My  DEAREST  Miss  Boyd, 

1  will  enter  at  once  upon  the  subject  of  your 
questions,  without  adverting  to  the  other  parts  of  your 
kind  letter.  "  Did  I  ever  complain  of  your  brother's 
unkindness   "    "  Had  I  ever  cause  to  complain  }  " 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON  183 
I  reply  to  the  second  first. 

Never  from  the  moment  I  began  to  work  at 
Christ  Church  till  the  moment  I  left  It  did  your 
brother  cease  to  act  towards  me  in  a  liberal,  kind,  and 
Christian  way.  Never  can  I  be  sufficiently  grateful 
for  his  repeated  acts  of  considerate  solicitude.  Except 
Charles  Jackson,  I  do  not  know  any  man  from  whom 
I  should  have  received  so  many.  And  you  have  my 
free  permission  to  say  to  any  one,  as  emphatically  as  I  can 
express  it,  that  I  do  not  believe  it  would  be  possible  to 
find  any  parish  in  England  where  the  relations  of  an 
Incumbent  towards  a  curate  were  more  faultlessly  sus- 
tained. But  to  say  this  is  only  half  the  truth.  They 
were  not  only  faultlessly,  but  affectionately  sustained. 
I  am  not  now  giving  vent  to  feeling,  but  answering 
your  question  in  a  businesslike  way. 

Perhaps,  however,  from  the  significant  way  in 
which  your  second  question,  "  Did  you  ever  com- 
plain," etc.,  is  put,  I  ought  to  go  a  little  deeper  into 
the  matter  before  I  answer  it. 

What  I  have  already  said  would  seem  to  make  a 
reply  to  this  superfluous,  and  if  it  were  not  that  your 
anxious  tone  seems  to  imply  that  some  real  expression 
or  other  of  mine  has  been  repeated,  or  exaggerated,  or 
distorted,  I  should  answer  at  once  '*  Never."  And  I  do 
answer,  I  recollect  nothing  which  could  have  been  so 
understood.  But  a  negative  extending  over  six  years 
back  is  hard  to  make,  as  sentences  often  pass  the  lips 
on  the  impulse  of  the  moment  which  are  forgotten  in 
an  hour,  unless  treasured  up  by  some  benevolent  peace- 
maker. I  must,  therefore,  with  pain,  advert  to  another 
part  of  the  matter. 

I  once  told  your  brother  frankly  and  openly  that 


1 84       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


(justly  or  unjustly  so  far  as  my  expectations  were 
concerned)  I  had  been  disappointed  during  the  latter 
portion  of  my  stay  in  Cheltenham  by  the  cooling  of 
his  manner  towards  me  ;  that  I  had  given  him  a  very 
ardent  attachment,  and  that  for  many  months  he  had 
exhibited  a  growing  coldness — that,  of  course,  I  had  no 
right  to  claim  friendship  in  return  for  friendship,  but 
that  it  had  galled  me  much  to  go  on  as  we  had  been 
doing  lately,  that  nothing  but  the  feeling  of  his  kind- 
ness, which  had  been  once  so  hearty,  could  have  kept 
me  in  a  disagreeable  post  so  long — that  when  that 
heartiness  ceased,  the  disagreeable  character  of  the 
position  became  intolerable — that  1  had  not  a  single  act 
of  omission  to  complain  of,  but  that  I  had  missed  that 
which  gives  the  flavour  to  acts,  and  that  the  point 
which  turned  the  scale  at  last  in  the  decision  of  giving 
up  was  this. 

We  had  a  long  explanation  ;  and  your  brother 
mentioned  several  circumstances  which  had  insensibly 
led  to  all  this. 

These  feelings  indisputably  were  on  my  mind — I 
expressed  them  to  your  brother.  I  do  not  remember 
that  I  hinted  them  to  any  one  else — except  to  one 
person,  and  if  I  did  in  that  case,  it  was,  I  believe,  only 
vaguely.  But  it  would  be  very  rash  to  declare  posi- 
tively that  I  never  did  so — for,  when  a  thing  weighs 
heavily  on  the  mind,  in  particular  moments  it  is  apt  to 
come  out.  As  such  a  feeling  certainly  did  exist,  I  will 
not,  therefore,  affirm  that  during  three  or  four  years 
last  past  no  sentence  has  ever  escaped  my  lips  upon  the 
subject — especially  as  you  refuse  to  give  me  the  name 
of  the  person  to  whom  it  is  alleged  to  have  been  said, 
and  do  not  even  tell  me  what  was  said  or  affirmed  to 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON 


185 


have  been  said.  But  this  I  can  say,  that  my  memory 
is  a  perfect  blank  upon  the  subject ;  though  1  assume 
that  there  must  have  been  some  expression  of  dis- 
appointment of  mine  on  which  all  this  is  grafted.  I 
do  not  know  that  I  ought  to  have  given  an  answer 
at  all  unless  your  informant  had  been  willing  to  give 
his  name.  But  I  am  far  more  anxious  to  satisfy  you 
than  to  insist  upon  the  strict  justice  of  the  matter. 
If  it  be  a  man  who  has  told  this  story,  and  if  it  be  by 
his  own  wish  that  his  name  is  concealed,  you  may  con- 
vey to  him  my  opinion  that  he  is  a  coward — if  it  be  a 
lady,  you  may  tell  her  what  I  should  have  thought  had 
it  been  a  gentleman. 

My  reply,  therefore,  on  the  whole  is  this.  Youi" 
brother's  active  kindness  to  me  was  uniform  ;  beyond 
what  I  received  ;  substantial,  real,  true,  and  except  for 
a  few  unfortunate  occurrences  in  which  I  believe  mis- 
understanding was  the  cause  of  all,  most  affectionate. 
In  the  reciprocation  of  warmth  I  was  disappointed, 
latterly,  perhaps  unfairly  and  over  sensitively  and 
exorbitantly.  I  told  him  himself  that  I  was  dis- 
appointed, I  do  not  know  that  I  told  any  other  person 
so.  But  I  will  not  be  positive  in  so  very  wide  and 
vague  an  assertion.  The  feeling  was  within  ;  it  may 
have  got  out.  But  I  am  not  aware  that  it  did.  I 
think,  however,  I  may  be  pretty  positive  that  I  never 
said  the  words  which  have  been  repeated,  whatever 
those  are. 

But  it  is  exceedingly  painful  to  go  on  in  this  way, 
qualifying  denials  in  the  dark,  and  as  you  may  not  tell 
me  any  more,  I  feel  that  what  I  have  said  now  will 
amount  to  a  presumptive  proof  that  the  story  you 
allude  to  is  correct. 


86       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


Blessed  are  the  peacemakers  ;  and  accursed  are 
the  mischief  makers.  I  would  stake  a  great  deal  on 
the  conviction  that  your  informant  is  a  "  pious  person," 
which  is  a  compendious  equivalent  for  busybody, 
mischief  maker,  slanderer  and  hypocrite — now,  as 
1849  years  ago. 

Of  this  letter  you  may  make  whatever  use  you 
like.    Not  a  sentence  of  it  is  private. 

Ever,  in  unchanged  friendship, 

Most  affectionately  yours, 

{Signed)  Fred.  W.  R. 

The  time  came — it  was  bound  to  come — when  the  strain 
and  uncongeniality  of  Cheltenham  life  was  too  much  for 
Robertson,  The  spirit  of  petty  gossip,  the  hopeless  inability 
of  ossified  orthodoxy  to  understand  ethical  enthusiasm,  the 
need  for  more  leisure  for  study,  the  craving  for  an  atmo- 
sphere of  intellectual  comradeship,  made  a  change  imperative  ; 
but  when  the  parting  came  there  was  a  feeling  of  regret  on 
Robertson's  part.  The  following  letter  shows  clearly  how 
kindly  and  affectionate  were  the  relations  between  him  and 
Mr.  Boyd,  and  all  under  his  roof. 

My  dear  Miss  Boyd, 

I  feel  it  due  to  your  great  kindness  to  tell 
you  myself  and  not  let  it  come  through  a  third  person, 
that  I  have  to-day  given  up  the  curacy  of  Christ 
Church.  It  is  not  necessary  to  go  into  all  the  reasons. 
It  is  partly  in  compliance  with  medical  advice,  and 
partly  from  a  feeling  of  unfitness  for  ministerial  work 
which  becomes  day  by  day  more  depressing.  Possibly 
I  may  not  take  duty  again,  but  this  is  a  thing  for  after 
consideration. 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON 


187 


I  should  utterly  mistake  your  warm  and  friendly 
heart  if  I  did  not  feel  sure  that  this  will  be  a  matter  of 
sufficient  interest  to  you  to  excuse  my  writing.  1  was 
much  touched  by  your  kindness  last  week,  and  shall 
not  easily  forget  it.  Your  sisters  and  yourself  have 
treated  me  like  a  brother,  and  you  will  forgive  me  if  1 
say  that  1  feel  all  a  brother's  regard  and  warmth  of 
affection  for  you.  I  do  not  attempt  to  express  all  I 
feel  in  this  parting  from  you  and  your  brother.  I  am 
not  happy. 

Believe  me, 

Most  sincerely  yours, 

Frederick  W.  Robertson. 

Rodney  House, 
Friday. 

In  my  uncle's  view  Robertson  needed  mental  repose  ;  he 
suggested  that  he  should  close  his  books  for  a  time,  and 
take  a  holiday,  and,  unburdened  by  anxious  thought,  give 
himself  the  opportunity  of  entire  rest.  There  may  have 
been  wisdom  in  the  suggestion  ;  but  it  was  a  course  which 
was  impossible,  I  should  think,  to  a  man  of  Robertson's 
temperament.  Among  the  clergy  there  are  some  men  who 
are  like  lawyers  :  they  speak  to  their  brief,  and  they  can 
handle  the  case  committed  to  them  with  effective  force. 
Such  men  know  little  of  the  mental  struggle  which  is  the 
portion  of  those  who  cannot  accept  a  brief  till  they  have 
satisfied  themselves  that  it  is  drawn  in  harmony  with  the 
facts.  As  long  as  these  different  classes  of  mind  exist, 
there  may  be  friendliness,  but  there  can  hardly  be  perfect 
intellectual  sympathy  between  them.  The  difference  of 
temperament  does  not  imply  lack  of  mental  honesty  on 


1 88        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


the  part  of  either  ;  it  only  means  that  to  one  the  ministry  is 
the  continuous  opportunity  of  presenting  an  aspect  of  truth 
which  has  become  a  conviction  ;  to  the  other  the  ministry  is 
the  perpetual  duty  of  following  truth  through  the  various 
aspects  it  assumes,  as  knowledge  grows,  and  experience 
shows  fresh  disclosures  of  life.  To  the  one  the  message  is 
a  fixed  and  divinely  authenticated  message  ;  to  the  other 
the  message  is  never  felt  to  be  divine  till  it  can  be  translated 
into  some  human  form. 

We  have  had  both  classes  of  teachers  in  the  Church  of 
Christ,  and  both  have  served  to  enrich  the  thought  and 
revive  the  spirit  of  faith. 

There  is  no  doubt  to  which  of  these  classes  Robertson 
belonged,  and  the  freshness  of  his  message  to  men  was  due 
to  the  scrupulous  intellectual  honesty  of  his  thought,  and  to 
the  attractive  human  form  in  which  he  could  present  truth. 

I  have  mentioned  the  letters  which  he  wrote  to  my  aunt. 
They  prove  that  he  regarded  her  as  one  who  had  both  the 
capacity  and  the  wish  to  sympathize  with  his  struggles  to 
reach  a  satisfactory  outlook  upon  his  life  of  ministry.  He 
gives  expression  in  one  of  his  letters  to  the  happy  freedom 
which  he  feels  when  he  has  exchanged  the  climate  of 
Cheltenham  for  that  of  Oxford.  In  this  letter  he  rejoices 
to  find  that  his  admiration  of  Tennyson  as  a  poet  is  shared 
by  many  thoughtful  men  at  Oxford.  The  implication  is 
clear  enough.  I  can  well  believe  that  the  Cheltenham  of 
1847  could  not  receive  Tennyson.  I  can  recall  a  con- 
versation which  I  heard  twenty  years  later  in  a  Blackheath 
drawing-room,  which  probably  illustrates  the  Cheltenham 
standpoint.    Some  adventurous  person  asked  the  company 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON 


"  Who  was  the  greatest  living  poet  ? "  A  man  recognized 
as  a  leader  of  evangelical  thought  took  upon  him,  with 
amazing  promptness,  to  answer  the  question.  *'  Oh,  Bonar, 
no  doubt."  I  gasped  ;  I  was  silent  ;  there  are  some  occasions 
in  which  amazement  makes  speech  impossible.  Could  there 
be  a  more  cruel  thing  to  an  excellent,  pious,  hymn  writer  like 
Horatius  Bonar,  than  thus  to  thrust  him  among  the  gods  .'' 
It  was  one  of  those  fatuous  utterances  which  do  much  to 
alienate  thinking  men  from  a  form  of  religion  which  could 
produce  such  undiscriminating  and  ignorant  judgments. 

This  reminiscence  of  mine  may  serve  as  an  introduction 
to  Robertson's  letter  in  which  the  verdicts  upon  Tennyson 
are  referred  to.  It  illustrates,  I  think,  and  helps  to  explain, 
the  joy  which  Robertson  felt  in  breathing  the  air  of  Oxford. 
There  he  was  no  longer  living  in  an  exhausted  receiver. 
The  fresh  currents  of  free  and  impartial  thought  were 
circulating  in  the  colleges  and  common  rooms  ;  ecclesi- 
asticism  had  not  then  begun  to  strangle  common  sense 
and  honest  judgment.  Ideas  were  abroad,  and  organization 
had  not  yet  had  power  to  destroy  them. 

4,  Queen  Street, 
Oxford, 

June  29. 

A  letter  is  such  a  joy  to  me  here  in  banishment  ! 
I  found  yours  lying  at  my  door  this  morning,  where 
my  letters  are  always  put,  reclining  against  a  taper 
earthen  vessel,  containing  water,  a  hint  taken  from 
Punch's  surmise  of  the  i  lb.  loaf  of  bread  standing 
beside  Lord  John  Russell's  door  at  Windsor.  I  took 
it  up  in  a  kind  of  delirium,  or  trance  of  ecstasy — put 
it  on  the  table,  and  endeavoured  to  go  through  the 


I90       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


usual  rehearsal  of  my  previous  day's  reading  with 
which  I  occupy  that  morning  half-hour.  But,  alas  ! 
my  toilette  lucubrations  for  to-day  were  not  worth 
much,  broken  and  disconnected.  Glimpses  of  expected 
pleasure — recollections — visions  in  the  shape  of  a  female 
form,  flitted  and  glittered  and  danced  before  me  in  the 
intervals  of  Gerando's  French  philosophy  and  the 
dark  depths  of  Schleiermacher's  metaphysics — like  pale 
threads  of  starlight  that  you  see  with  long  intervals 
of  black,  in  a  long  line  up  to  the  horizon  when  the 
sea  is  agitated  and  nervous. 

And  now  to  touch  on  points  in  your  letter.  I 
have  not  heard  of  the  appointment  of  my  successor, 
and  only  a  week  ago  the  Bishop  told  me  he  had  found 
no  one.  He  asked  Mr.  Tucker  of  Madras,  but  he 
unfortunately  had  just  accepted  a  church.  However, 
the  report  may  be  true.  People  here  are  very  anxious, 
almost  feverishly  so  about  it,  for  the  Tractarian  reign 
in  this  parish  had  brought  the  congregation  down  to 
twenty-five  or  thirty.  Taking  it  all  in  all,  though, 
there  are  many  drawbacks  ;  if  only  the  stipend  were 
a  little  better,  I  should  prefer  remaining  here  to  going 
to  Brighton.  There  is  much  that  is  very  encouraging, 
and  I  am  free  and  happy.  My  congregation  is  chiefly 
composed  of  tradespeople,  but  unfortunately  a  large 
proportion  of  it  is  from  other  parishes.  In  term  time 
gownsmen  were  beginning  to  come,  and  I  would  rather, 
far,  far  rather,  work  among  such  than  among  the 
pampered  theologians  of  the  upper  classes,  whose 
profound  ignorance  makes  them  obstinate  in  their 
own  narrow,  silly  orthodoxy.  Rather  a  great  deal 
would  I  deal  with  the  honest  radicalism  of  my  chief 
parishioners  here,  who  stand  firmly  against  the  foolish 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON 


assumptions  and  the  arrogance  of  Oxford  clerical  high 
churchism,  but  are  ready  to  give  a  manly,  independent 
and  candid  attention  to  anyone  who  will  stand  on 
generous  though  firm  ground,  than  with  those  petrifac- 
tions of  a  fashionable  watering-place  whose  liberality  is 
chiefly  liberality  of  certain  flames  to  which  they  consign 
those  who  differ  from  them.  I  do  not  dispute  their 
title  to  deal  with  those  flames.  Very  likely  they  have 
a  clear  right  of  property  therein,  which  at  all  events  I 
will  not  attempt  to  rob  them  of.  But  of  the  two,  the 
Romanist  who  presents  his  antagonist  with  the  flames 
of  this  world  and  the  Protestant  who  talks  of  private 
judgment,  and  promises  everyone  who  contravenes  his 
judgment  a  liberal  supply  of  the  flames  of  the  next — 
(witness  Baptist  Noel !),  I  can  only  say  the  latter  is 
the  worse  Papist  and  Apostle  of  infallibility  of  the  two. 
It  is  not  a  beautiful  spectacle  in  the  eyes  of  Him  Who 
is  Love.  The  Romanist  excommunicates  the  Protes- 
tant. The  Protestant  reciprocates,  from  his  Coward's 
Castle  in  the  pulpit  and  platform,  curses  loud  and  deep 
amidst  the  clatter  of  parasols  and  the  applauses  of 
ignorance,  against  the  Romanist.  The  Tractarian 
sneers  at  the  Evangelical  from  the  University  pulpit  : 
in  acknowledgment  of  which  politeness  the  Evangelical 
in  his  accredited  formula  of  oath,  not  swearing — oh, 

no  ! — sends  the  Tractarian  to   Dr.  Hook,  whom 

I  heard  a  few  days  ago,  says  publicly  that  every  man 
who  does  not  hold  baptismal  regeneration  in  the 
Church  of  England  is  as  much  a  rogue  as  he  who 
does  hold  the  doctrine  of  Transubstantiation  :  and  a 
few  weeks  ago  I  heard  himself  abused  as  a  Papist 
in  dense  darkness.  Mr.  Ward  cuts  up  Luther,  and 
Archdeacon  Hare  excoriates  Mr.  Ward  with  flagella- 


192        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


tion  and  vituperation.  The  Unitarian  looks  on  and 
says,  this  is  Christian  unity  !  till,  like  the  celebrated 
exclamation  of  Tarn  o'Shanter  which  brought  the  whole 
legion  of  witches  on  his  luckless  mare,  the  Unitarian 
receives  a  significant  proof  that  these  combatants  can 
upon  occasion  realise  unity,  by  the  peal  of  deafening 
and  combined  curses  with  which  they  altogether  salute 
the  intruder  upon  the  amiable  meeting.  You  look 
into  his  controversies,  and  you  find  he  has  not  been 
much  behind  them.  For  curses  he  has  returned  con- 
tempt. What  a  striking  historical  picture  all  this  would 
make,  especially  if  over  it  there  were  written  Prize 
Picture,  composed  on  a  subject  as  proposed  by  the 
R.A.,  "  A  new  Commandment  give  I  unto  you,  that  ye 
love  one  another  !  " 

I  did  not  attend  any  of  the  Lectures,  a  very 
Gothic  proceeding  on  my  part,  I  have  no  doubt  you 
will  think  ;  but  the  truth  is  I  wanted  to  avoid  all 
excitement  and  keep  my  mind  and  heart  calm  for 
work.  I  have  three  sermons  a  week,  besides  Con- 
firmation classes  and  instruction  in  the  school,  which 
occupy  six  hours  every  week  :  besides  visiting  the  sick. 
And  I  could  not  do  this  thoroughly  if  I  suflFered  myself 
to  get  into  the  exciting  worlds  of  though  which  are 
being  presented  now  and  which  so  dissipate  the  mind, 
as  you  run  about  from  section  to  section.  I  was  and 
even  still  am  much  tempted  to  go,  for  I  hear  on  every 
side  accounts  of  intense  interest  recited.  Yesterday 
Prince  Albert  came  amidst  the  ringing  of  bells,  and  a 
salute  of  twenty-one  guns  which  the  townspeople  fired 
in  his  honour,  but  I  left  those  who  think  a  prince  the 
real  standard  of  human  greatness  to  run  after  him. 
I  would  rather  have  seen  the  great  and  good  Chevalier 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON 


193 


Bunsen.  I  know  nothing  grand  in  this  world  except 
adorned  human  nature.  Goodness  is  grand,  and  genius 
in  a  smaller  way  is  great,  though  I  am  no  worshipper 
of  talent,  or  Titans.  But  princes  and  rank  and  such 
small  fry  I  would  not  turn  out  of  my  way  to  see. 
Manhood  and  the  mysteries  of  the  human  heart  I  can 
find  without  a  title  :  and  this  world  holds  little  now 
for  me  that  is  marvellous,  except  that.  Sir  Peregrine 
Maitland  received  an  honorary  degree  in  full  uniform 
at  the  commemoration — a  man  disgraced  for  doing  his 
duty  in  India.  I  gave  him  a  deep  and  hearty  cheer, 
as  the  fine  old  fellow  stood  meekly  and  unmoved  and 
simple  amidst  his  thunders  of  applause.  And  when 
I  saw  him  afterwards  in  a  great  meeting  shrinking  into 
a  corner  and  sitting  listening  like  a  child,  I  felt  that, 
after  all,  the  despised  life  of  Christ  is  the  only  grand 
thing  this  earth  has  seen  (except  that  which  resembles 
it).  Jesus  Christ  and  the  crucified — by  which  our 
Evangelicals  understand  that  they  are  to  preach  only 
or  chiefly  the  crucifixion  of  Christ — robbing  the  whole 
passage  of  its  sublime  significance,  as  if  the  Apostle 
did  not  mean  to  say  this,  that  he  gloried  in  a  Saviour 
humbled  :  shamed,  not  applauded  :  crucified,  not  en- 
throned :  that  this  is  the  true  majesty  of  man  :  that 
he  would  not  do  as  the  Roman  Catholic  missionaries 
did,  represent  Jesus  as  a  victorious  conqueror,  but  as  a 
martyr  for  the  truth.  He  did  not  say  he  would  preach 
chiefly  the  Crucifixion  of  Christ  :  but  that  whatever  he 
said  of  Christ  should  not  obscure  the  fact  of  his 
humiliation.  He  would  preach  Christ  :  but  that 
Christ  a  humbled  one.  He  would  speak  of  goodness, 
nobleness,  purity,  heroism  :  but  never  should  it  be 
forgotten  in  his  teaching  that  the  Divinest  form  of 
o 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


these  is  Condescension.  Let  the  world  run  after  its 
Marquises,  Dukes,  Prince  Alberts,  and  lionise  them  in 
its  way.  The  homage  of  his  heart  should  be  prostrated 
before  love  and  manhood  even  in  disgrace  ;  the  love 
which  sacrifices  itself  for  others — the  manhood  which 
is  as  dazzling  to  the  heart  in  the  cottage  of  a  labourer 
as  in  the  state  carriage  of  a  noble. 

I  am  happier  and  more  at  rest  in  heart  here 
than  I  have  been  for  a  long,  long  time.  Except  this 
week  I  have  scarcely  spoken  to  any  one  except  my 
parishioners  and  bookseller.  I  am  alone.  But  I  have 
plenty  of  work — elasticity  of  mind  to  do  it  all  without 
any  effort  greater  than  what  is  a  healthful  exercise  of 
mind — know  that  when  I  preach,  I  preach  not  to  be 
judged,  but  to  say  out  what  is  in  me,  one  heart  impart- 
ing its  earnest  convictions  to  other  hearts,  and  not 
troubled  with  reflex  work  upon  itself,  self-conscious- 
ness, self-measurement,  self-criticism,  but  revelling  in 
entire  self-forgetfulness.  Even  when  University  men 
of  high  talent  are  present,  I  have  been  at  ease—  preached 
not  for  them,  but  for  my  tradespeople — knowing  that 
they,  as  men  of  talent  always  do,  will  make  allowances. 
And  oh,  what  a  lesson  has  it  read  me  and  might  read 
Cheltenham  of  humility  !  I  have  talked  with  and 
preached  before  briUiant  and  gifted  men,  who  differed 
from  me,  who  were  intellectually  as  far  above  me  "  as 
the  sunlight  to  the  moonlight,"  &c.,  with  more  con- 
fidence, and  received  from  them  more  respect,  more 
unwillingness  to  differ — more  distrustfulness  of  their 
own  judgment  and  reverence  for  another's,  than  during 
five  years  I  ever  met  from  the  beings  in  Cheltenham 
who  read  the  Record,  Charlotte  Elisabeth,  and 
D'Aubigne  on  the  Reformation  ! 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON 


195 


I  had  nearly  forgotten  to  tell  you  that  Tennyson 
is  deeply  admired  here  by  all  the  brilliant  men. 
Stanley,  our  first  genius,  rates  him  highly.  Hannah, 
who  has  guided  nearly  all  the  first  and  double  first- 
class  men  for  the  last  three  years  to  honors,  told  me 
he  considers  his  poetical  and  psychological  powers 
more  varied  than  any  poet  he  knows.  And  the 
Dread,  a  choice  selection  of  the  most  brilliant  among 
the  rising  men,  have  pronounced  him  to  be  the  first 
poet  of  the  day.  So  you  see  I  have  some  to  keep  me 
company  in  my  judgment.  And  at  all  events  he  is 
above  ridicule.  Pray  inform  Miss  Dalzell  of  all  this. 
One  of  our  first  professors  raves  about  him. 

I  have  left  myself  no  room  with  all  this  chatting 
strain  to  tell  you  how  angry  I  am  with  you  for  sup- 
posing that  I  was  annoyed  by  not  receiving  a  letter 
from  you.  One  letter  is  precious  enough  to  amply 
repay  and  outweigh  ten  of  mine,  even  though  you 
write  so  large  and  say  so  little,  and  send  such  dis- 
appointing sheets  containing  three  words  in  a  line  and 
four  lines  in  a  page. 

Pray  put  my  address  in  full  next  time  you  write. 
My  name  is  no  longer  in  the  Oxford  Calendar,  and  as 
I  had  just  come  and  was  not  known  as  one  of  the 
parochial  clergy,  the  post  office  could  not  tell  at  what 
college  they  should  apply.  Brasenose  would  have 
found  me.    And  now,  dearest  Miss  Boyd,  farewell  ! 

Ever  most  sincerely  and  affectionately  yours, 

{Signed)  Frederick.  W.  Robertson. 

His  life  at  Oxford  was  a  happy  interlude,  and  its  in- 
fluence helped  in  preparation  for  his  work  at  Brighton. 
Whatever  may  have  been  his  own  feelings  respecting  the 


196        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


relative  comfort  of  work  in  Oxford  or  in  Brighton,  it  will  be 
with  Brighton  that  Robertson's  name  will  be  always  associ- 
ated. He  was  Robertson  of  Brighton  to  the  men  of  his  own 
day,  and  he  is  Robertson  of  Brighton  to  the  thousands  who 
to-day  rejoice  in  the  inspiration  which  they  owe  to  him. 

The  spirit  in  which  he  contemplated  the  change  from 
Oxford  to  Brighton  is  made  clear  in  the  following  letter, 
which  possesses  the  added  interest  of  the  language  in  which 
he  speaks  of  the  then  Bishop  of  Oxford,  who  in  his  turn 
was  a  man,  as  we  know,  viewed  with  suspicion  by  a  certain 
section  of  Churchpeople. 

This  morning  I  received  a  letter  from  the  Bishop 
of  Oxford,  informing  me  that  he  has  appointed  a  tem- 
porary successor  to  St.  Ebbes,  and  that  I  am  therefore 
free  after  next  Sunday.  So  my  work  is  nearly  done, 
over  which  I  cannot  rejoice,  for  it  has  been  very  de- 
lightful :  regular,  hard,  and  not  unblest.  I  am  quite 
certain  that  I  could  be  of  service  here — both  in  the 
town  and  the  university — more  so,  perhaps,  than  any- 
where in  England.  However,  it  is  very  plainly  not 
my  appointed  post.  If  Brighton  resemble  Cheltenham 
I  shall  soon  be  at  Home,  in  the  still  Country.  My 
spontaneous  thoughts  more  and  more  shape  them- 
selves now  into  longings  for  rest — Rest  in  God — Rest 
in  the  place  where  mysteries  are  solved  and  heartaches 
cured.  Five  years  of  Cheltenham  have  been  to  me 
as  ten  elsewhere.  I  am  not  the  man  I  was — temper, 
mind,  character,  all  are  deteriorated  and  degraded. 
Here,  once  more  in  life,  the  ghost  of  former  thoughts 
has  hovered  round  me,  strength  of  will,  high  aims, 
and  inward  harmony.    One   last,  beautiful  dream — 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON 


197 


such  as  you  only  get  when  your  working  hours  alone 
are  spent  with  men  (and  those  hard  and  severe),  the 
hours  of  relaxation  in  quiet,  alone,  and  with  God. 
However,  it  is  drawing  to  an  end — and  now  hurrah  ! 
for  bustle,  glare,  restlessness — and  the  drag  of  existence, 
that  will  drag  on  ! 

The  Judge  has  just  passed  my  window  to  the 
assizes  with  music,  shouts  and  holiday.  What  arc 
people  shouting  for  Good  fun  !  He  is  gone  to 
make  some  wretched  hearts  more  wretched  still.  What 
a  contrast  their  feelings  must  present  to  the  sounds 
outside  !  Surely  the  only  sensation  which  sinners  have 
a  right  to  feel  tov/ards  sinners  is  a  sensation  of  pity. 
The  wretched,  suffering,  tempted  poor — how  little 
they  get  of  anything  beyond  platform  and  pulpit 
sympathy. 

The  Bishop  of  Oxford  preached  here  a  few  Sun- 
days ago,  before  all  the  savants  and  great  men.  They 
crowded  to  the  church,  which  was  filled  to  suffocation 
— a  sea  of  men,  the  ladies  occupying  a  very  small  pro- 
portion of  the  space.  It  is  said  to  have  been  very 
brilliant.  But  he  is  wearing  himself  out,  burning  away 
fast.  And  as  usual  with  all  men  who  will  not  be 
partisans,  he  is  suspected,  reviled  and  charged  with  the 
meanest  motives  on  every  side,  except  by  those  who 
know  him  intimately  and  well,  and  they  admire  and  love 
him  in  a  way  I  have  seldom  known.  His  Master  had 
exactly  the  same  life  of  it.  1  do  admire  the  Bishop  of 
Oxford — and  admire  him  the  more  for  the  hearty, 
enthusiastic  admiration  that  he  can  feel  for  others' 
excellence.  It  quite  did  my  heart  good  in  a  conversa- 
tion with  him  the  other  day  to  hear  the  warmth  of  his 
generous  praise  of  one  or  two  men  to  whose  writings 


198        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


he  acknowledges  a  great  debt.  For  seven  years  now 
I  have  felt  that  he  was  a  true  man,  and  defended 
him.  Now  I  feel  more  sure  of  it  than  ever.  And 
now,  dearest  Miss  Boyd,  farewell. 

Ever  most  affect. 
Yours, 

(Sgd.)  F.  W.  R. 

It  is  interesting  to  notice  the  hesitations  which  men 
show  in  life.  Hesitations  are  of  different  kinds,  but  once 
we  can  classify  the  hesitation  which  a  man  has  displayed  in 
any  crisis  we  have  a  key  to  his  character — or,  at  any  rate,  we 
feel  that  we  know  him  better.  Fredk.  Robertson  was  a 
man  whose  powers  grew  with  sympathy  and  would  have 
withered  under  indifference.  He  was  sensitive  to  the 
influence  and,  above  all,  to  the  sympathetic  support  of 
others.  His  was  one  of  those  natures  which  would  reach 
its  best  under  what  we  may  call  a  mothering  influence  : 
under  it  his  energies  quickened,  his  thoughts  grew  in 
amplitude  and  clearness,  and  in  the  outpouring  of  the  ideas 
which  sympathy  released,  he  felt  his  way  to  clearer  con- 
ceptions of  right  and  truth.  Such  a  nature  suffers  from  a 
continual  and  painful  self-distrust :  it  needs  comradeship 
that  it  may  talk  out  its  thoughts  :  it  does  not  surrender  its 
own  right  of  decision,  but  it  yearns  for  the  support  and 
guidance  which  the  interchange  of  ideas  can  give.  The 
letters  written  to  my  aunt  convince  me  of  this  aspect  of  his 
character.  He  found  in  her  one  to  whom  he  could  speak 
freely,  letting  his  thoughts  run  on,  groping  their  way  to 
foundation  principles,  and  striving  to  reach  that  aspect  of 
truth  which  scorns  "  the  falsehood  of  extremes."  Truth 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON 


199 


was  to  him  not  mere  correctness  of  thinking,  but  sincerity 
of  feeling  and  integrity  in  action.  The  following  extract 
from  a  letter  written  from  Oxford  shows  us  the  worthy  and 
honest  hesitation  which  he  felt  in  choosing  the  place  of  his 
future  career.  Is  it  to  be  Oxford  or  Brighton  was  the 
question  of  the  moment.  He  distrusts  himself  :  he  wishes 
that  the  question  shall  be  decided  for  him. 

The  reader  will  perhaps  recall  Mr.  Frederic  Harrison's 
view  that,  at  Brighton,  Robertson's  appearance,  voice  and 
manner  were  the  very  ideal  of  a  fashionable  preacher.  How 
far  Robertson  himself  was  from  desiring  such  a  reputation 
the  following  extract  will  show — 

"  I  must  tell  you,  however,  that  nothing  yet  is  de- 
cided respecting  my  future  location.  I  have  referred 
the  whole  decision  to  the  Bishop  of  Oxford.  Having 
agreed  to  take  his  opinion  as  God's  guidance,  I  was 
tempted  at  first  to  think  that  though  his  release  left  me 
free  in  honour  to  accept  which  I  chose,  yet  it  would  be 
playing  fast  and  loose  with  God,  as  Balaam  did,  to  de- 
sire a  second  reply  to  a  ruled  decision.  But  on  second 
thoughts,  1  perceived  a  great  difference  in  the  cases. 
New  circumstances,  unsought  and  unforeseen  by  me, 
have  arisen  :  difficulties  on  the  one  hand  in  the  failure 
as  to  the  curate  and  the  house,  and  a  way  unexpectedly 
opened  on  the  other  by  the  committee's  application  to 
the  Bishop.  I  am  therefore  bound  to  inquire  which  is 
God's  guidance.  I  was  willing  to  take  Oxford  when 
it  seemed  my  duty.  Am  I  equally  willing  to  follow  a 
new  path,  if  distinctly  pointed  out  .''  There  is  a  re- 
markable similarity  in  the  two  sets  of  circumstances. 
Both  Oxford  and  Brighton  were  refused  by  me  once, 


200        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


and  both  a  second  time  pressed  upon  me.  1  dread 
Brighton  because  of  its  temptations — to  vanity,  to 
lightness,  to  live  for  popularity  instead  of  God,  to 
be  satisfied  with  superficial  instead  of  deep  religion — 
to  sink,  with  all  high  and  pure  aims,  into  a  mere  popu- 
lar preacher  at  last,  i.  e.  if  I  could  ever  be  popular. 
But  I  have  put  the  matter  out  of  my  own  hands  and 
asked  the  Bishop  to  decide — not  what  is  best  for  me, 
but  what  I  ought  to  do.    So  at  least  I  act  honestly." 

The  Bishop,  as  we  know,  decided  for  Brighton,  and 
Brighton  had  the  six  years  of  devoted  ministry.  I  feel  that 
I  must  add  one  letter  :  it  differs  from  the  rest  in  that  it  deals 
with  religious  matters  from  an  experimental  point  of  view. 
His  clear  and  sane  readiness  of  thought  does  not  desert  him, 
but  with  it  is  allied  the  happy  simplicity  of  religious  faith. 

My  dear  Miss  Boyd, 

I  return  your  list  with  a  few  marked,  which 
I  believe  would  suit  your  purpose.  I  have  added  two 
or  three  more,  which  are  valuable.  It  seems  to  me 
that  biography,  where  there  is  not  sentimentalism  but 
reality,  is  the  most  likely  way  to  win  an  appreciation  of 
what  is  peculiar  in  Christ's  religion  from  those  who 
know  it  not  in  power.  I  say  likely,  because  of  course 
the  success  depends  on  God's  sovereign  will,  and  all 
our  best  contrived  expedients  may  be  baffled,  while  the 
result  is  brought  about  by  means  the  most  apparently 
improbable.  But  we  are  insensibly  moulded  after  that 
which  we  admire,  so  that  we  even  catch  the  tones  and 
peculiarities  of  those  whose  character  is  venerated  for 
quite  other  qualities.  It  seems  just  on  this  principle 
that  our  Lord's  pattern  works  upon  the  heart  when 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON 


it  is  truly  admired  and  studied,  so  that  we,  first 
"  beholding,"  are  then  "  changed  into  the  same  image — 
from  glory  to  glory." 

But  after  all,  the  selection  must  vary  with  the 
character  of  mind  for  which  it  is  intended,  and  our  best 
plans  may  err.  Your  surest  effort  will  be  unfainting 
prayer  for  the  friend  in  whom  you  desire  a  change 
which  nothing  of  human  contrivance  can  effect,  and 
which  is  supernatural.  If  your  desires  are  crowned  by 
God,  there  will  be  a  purity  in  the  joy,  which  no  other 
feeling  on  earth  can  give.  I  pray  that  it  may  not  be  in 
vain. 

Yours  ever  sincerely, 

(Sgd.)     Frederick  W.  Robertson. 

Saturday  Evening. 
The  following  lines  are  probably  new  to  the  world  ; 
they  breathe  the  spirit  of  pure  and  happy  friendship,  and 
they  express  the  grateful  emotions  of  a  man  who  found  the 
sustaining  strength  of  womanly  sympathy,  in  days  which 
were  darkened  by  doubt  and  trouble,  with  the  painful 
consciousness  of  weakness.  They  show  us  something  of 
the  struggles  of  spirit  by  which  he  was  tried,  in  days  when 
there  was  probably  fighting  without,  and  undoubtedly  fears 
within. 

PARTING  LINES  TO  MISS  F.  B. 
We  may  meet  not  beyond  to-morrow, 

But  one  word  before  we  part  ; 
It  must  be  a  tone  of  sorrow, 

But  its  music  is  vent  to  the  heart. 
There  are  thoughts  too  free  and  glowing 

For  the  trammels  of  common  speech  ; 
There's  a  tide  in  the  heart's  depth  flowing, 

Too  high  but  for  song  to  reach. 


202       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


Thou  hast  known  me  in  days  that  are  over, 

As  weak  as  the  spent  sea  wave  ; 
And  hast  seen  me  unmanned  discover 

What  were  shame  to  the  firm  and  brave. 

Yet  through  all  thine  unaltered  spirit 

For  weakness  itself  could  mourn, 
And  was  blind  to  each  fault  which  could  merit 

One  curl  on  the  mouth  of  scorn. 

Farewell  to  the  lip  that  trembled 

For  me  with  a  sister's  fear  ! 
Farewell  to  the  eye  that  dissembled 

The  start  of  a  woman's  tear. 

The  hour  of  that  weakness  is  over, 
Though  lost  be  the  earnest  of  life ; 

And  if  need  be,  Resolve  can  cover 
Each  swell  of  remaining  strife. 

Oh  !  strange  are  the  shapes  which  Feeling 

Can  assume  to  disguise  its  throe, 
When  sarcastic  calm  is  concealing 

The  quiver  of  heart  below. 

There's  a  laughter  whose  light  animation 
Is  the  knell  of  a  hope  that's  gone — 

The  bitter  and  proud  isolation 

Of  a  soul  that  would  suffer  alone. 

Love  itself  may  be  frozen — yet  never 
Shall  my  heart  be  congealed  to  thee  ; 

To  the  spell  of  thy  kind  tones  ever 
My  spirit  flows  clear  and  free. 

On  the  sward  by  the  mouldering  ruin, 

Still  green  is  the  fairy  ring  ; 
And  thy  name,  in  life's  cold  undoing, 

Will  be  one  last  spot  of  Spring. 


F.  W.  ROBERTSON 


203 


Farewell  to  thee,  sister  dearest  ! 

There  were  friends  in  the  bright  years  past ; 
But  to  her  who  in  sadness  was  nearest. 

One  blessing  from  me  at  last. 

F.  W.  R. 

January  1847. 

Six  years  later  he  died.  Six  years  of  work  at  Trinity 
Church,  Brighton,  closed  without  his  friends  or  his  congre- 
gation realizing  how  wide  and  lasting  his  influence  was 
destined  to  be.  He  died  on  August  15,  1853,  exactly  six 
years  from  the  day  on  which  he  commenced  his  work  at 
Brighton.  "  My  friends,"  he  said,  after  two  hours  of 
agony,  "  My  friends,  I  must  die.  Let  God  do  His  work." 
They  were  his  last  words  spoken,  but  the  work  did  not 
end  with  his  death.  His  words  went  out  far  and  wide,  and 
God  worked  by  him  long  after  his  voice  was  silent. 


J.  HENRY  SHORTHOUSE 


Among  happy  memories  few  are  brighter  than  the 
recollection  of  those  acquaintances  which  ripened  into 
friendship.  Among  these  I  must  reckon  the  v/arm  attach- 
ment which  sprang  up  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shorthouse 
and  ourselves.  I  met  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Shorthouse  first  at  the 
house  of  a  parishioner  of  mine,  Colonel  RatclifF,  when  1  was 
at  Lancaster  Gate.  In  one  of  those  unaccountable  ways  we 
seemed  to  find  each  other,  and  a  correspondence,  happily 
broken  by  interchanged  visits,  gave  continuity  and  strength 
to  our  friendship.  "  Friendship,"  said  the  late  Professor 
Jowett,  "  should  be  carefully  fostered."  In  this  case  it  was  ; 
and  letters  and  visits  nursed  the  growing  affection  between 
us.    It  began  very  simply. 

There  was  a  paper  written  by  Mr.  Shorthouse  which  was, 
I  think,  unique,  in  the  pages  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.  It 
covered,  if  I  recollect  right,  a  single  page  of  the  magazine. 
It  was  a  parable  drawn  from  a  game  of  whist.  The  cards 
were  dealt,  and  as  they  fell  without  any  sign  of  order  or 
sequence  on  the  table,  and  suits  were  mixed  up  with  one 
another,  the  cards,  noting  the  haphazard  fashion  of  their  ex- 
perience said,  "  We  are  the  sport  of  chance."  The  cards 
were  gathered  up  and  the  game  began,  and  the  suits  were 
kept  to  themselves  ;  spades  followed  spades,  hearts  followed 

hearts,  and  so  on,  with  such  regularity  that  the  cards  now 
204 


J.  HENRY  SHORTHOUSE  205 


declared  that  they  were  under  the  rule  of  inevitable  and 
inexorable  law  ;  they  said,  "  We  are  the  victims  of  fate," 
Then  somebody  played  a  trump,  and  the  cards  saw  that 
thought  and  will  entered  into  their  destiny,  and  they  said 
"  Our  lot  is  ordered  by  intelligence."  ' 
As  I  wished  to  recover  the  paper  I  wrote  to  ask  the 
date  of  its  publication.  This  will  explain  the  allusion  in  the 
commencement  of  the  following  letter.  In  the  same  letter 
I  was  able  to  tell  him,  in  confidence,  that  Queen  Victoria 
appreciated  his  writings.  IMy  letter  brought  the  following 
reply— 

Lansdowne,  Edgbaston, 

December  12,  1883. 

My  dear  Canon  Boyd  Carpenter, 

The  little  "  apologue  "  you  refer  to  appeared 
in  the  Nineteenth  Century  for  July  1882.  I  seem  to 
have  only  one  copy,  and  that  a  poor  one,  or  I  would 
send  you  one  at  once.  I  have  no  doubt,  however, 
that  they  are  to  be  procured. 

I  have  always  regretted  that  I  saw  so  little  of  you 
when  we  met  at  Colonel  RatclifF's  ;  my  wife  was  more 
fortunate,  as  she  sat  by  you  at  dinner,  and  in  conse- 
quence greatly  enjoyed  the  evening. 

I  am  naturally  much  gratified  by  what  you  tell  me 
in  confidence.  I  had  the  honour  of  being  allowed  to 
present  a  copy  of  John  Inglesant  to  H.R.H.  the  Duke 
of  Albany,  and  also,  at  the  request  of  the  Librarian,  to 
send  a  copy  to  the  Queen,  but  yours  is  the  first  inti- 
mation I  have  received  of  personal  interest  in  the  book. 
With  kindest  regards  from  my  wife, 

I  am.  Yours  very  sincerely, 

{Signed)  J.  Henry  Shorthouse. 

The  Rev.  Canon  Boyd  Carpenter. 


2o6       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


In  my  reply  I  asked  what  he  wished  me  to  do  with 
some  verses  he  had  sent,  and  as  in  the  following  reply  he 
put  them  at  my  disposal,  I  feel  that  I  may  now  give 
them  to  my  readers. 

Landsdowne, 

Edgbaston, 

April  1884.. 

My  dear  Canon  Boyd  Carpenter, 

Many  thanks  for  your  kind  letter  ;  we  were 
quite  ashamed  at  sending  you  so  many  books,  and 
very  glad  that  you  are  not  overwhelmed. 

The  verses  on  the  Prince  belong  to  you^  I  do  not 
mean  to  make  any  further  use  of  them.  I  could  not 
let  the  week,  which  began  so  happily  for  us  in  Windsor 
Castle,  pass  without  expressing  in  some  feeble  way  my 
sympathy  in  the  sorrow  and  compassion  which  the 
nation  is  feeling  ;  and  the  obvious  adaptation  of  the 
Dean's  (Stanley)  poem  struck  me  as  very  forcible, 
which  no  doubt  others  will  make  use  of. 

If  you  think  that  the  Princess  would  like  to  sec 
the  lines,  make  what  use  of  them  you  will.  I  am  not 
sure  whether  the  first  three  verses  would  not  end 
better — 

«'  He  travelled  Here." 

With  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Carpenter, 
From 

Yours  very  sincerely, 

{^igned^  J.  Henry  Shorthouse. 

The  verses  were  given  a  title  derived  from  a  phrase 
employed  by  Dean  Stanley.    They  were  called — 


J.  HENRY  SHORTHOUSE 


"THE  UNTRAVELLED  TRAVELLER" 

Through  Science'  mazy  lore, 
Through  Art's  environment, 
Through  Music's  blandishment, 

He  travelled  once. 

Through  Love,  our  Human  Love, 
Through  Hearts  of  Peasant-born, 
Through  courtly  life  and  purified. 

He  travelled  once. 

For  good  of  suffering  men, 
For  love  of  Human  kind. 
In  travailing  for  Truth, 

He  travelled  once. 

And  now  beyond  the  stars, 

Beyond  the  passion  of  our  trembling  love, 

Beyond  our  groping  quest 

He  travels  still. 

The  Eternal  Spaces  opening, 
The  Love,  not  ours  encompassing, 
Travail,  not  ours  inspiriting, 

He  travels  on  ! 

The  Iris  born  of  Love, 

The  Halo  round  the  face  of  Love, 

The  welcome  of  the  Man  of  Love, 

The  Throne  of  God  ! 

J.  H.  8. 

^th  Sunday  in  Lent,  1884. 

One  little  work  by'  Mr.  Shorthouse,  Little  Schoolmaster 
Mark,  interested  me  in  a  special  way,  and  my  interest 
was  stimulated  by  a  letter  from  Mr.  Shorthouse  which 
challenged  my  ingenuity. 

This  letter  I  regard  as  very  characteristic.  Mr.  Short- 
house  had  a  very  strong  feeling  that  the  stories  which  he 


2o8        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


wrote  had  been  given  him  :  he  was  but  the  instrument  of 
transmitting  them  to  the  world,  and  though  they  were  his 
work,  their  full  or  truest  significance  might  be  as  much 
a  mystery  to  him  as  to  the  reader.  The  questions  he 
raises  have  their  origin  in  this  conviction  of  his,  that  the 
products  of  his  pen  were  not  the  results  of  previous 
imagination  on  his  part,  but  were  visions  with  messages 
which  it  was  for  him  as  well  as  others  to  seek  to  under- 
stand. As  in  this  letter  he,  as  it  were,  challenged  me  to 
suggest  a  solution  of  the  problem,  I  gave  the  matter  some 
thought,  and  I  ventured  to  write  a  second  part  or  continu- 
ation of  the  tale.  There  might  have  been  an  impertinence 
in  doing  this,  but  1  know,  from  my  personal  and  friendly 
acquaintance  with  him,  that  he  would  welcome  rather  than 
resent  such  a  sign  of  interest  in  his  work. 

The  letter  was  as  follows — 

Lansdowne, 
Edgbaston, 

December  15,  1883. 

My  dear  Canon  Boyd  Carpenter, 

Many  thanks  for  your  letter.  At  the  risk 
of  troubling  you  I  should  like  to  tell  you  that  Mr. 
Ainger,  the  Reader  of  the  Temple,  whom  I  have 
the  great  pleasure  of  knowing,  preached  on  Little 
Mark  some  Sundays  ago,  and  sent  me  a  very  in- 
teresting (as  all  he  writes  must  be)  extract  from  his 
sermon.  He  takes  the  moral  of  the  story  to  be,  that 
if  Religion  is  made  a  plaything  or  an  art  instead  of  an 
absorbing  passion,  it  will  die. 

I  would  rather  say  that  the  story  is  that  of  one 
of  many  failures  to  reconcile  the  artistic  with  the 


J.  HENRY  SHORTHOUSE 


spiritual  aspect  of  life.  If  I  knew  the  solution  to 
this  problem  I  would  gladly  write  a  second  part.  Can 
you  help  me  to  it  ?  Is  religion  always  to  be  a  stranger 
and  alien  from  life's  Feast  ? 

The  Prince  was  not  a  strong  man,  but  I  have 
great  sympathy  with  him.  Was  it  not  the  Princess 
Isoline's  disappointment  in  her  extreme  phase  of  religious 
life  that  killed  Mark 

Yours  --.'ery  sincerely, 

{Signed)    J.  Henry  Shorthouse. 

In  reply  to  this  challenge  to  make  suggestions,  I  wrote 
my  solution.  This  was  the  postscript  which  I  wrote. 
I  do  not  know  that  I  should,  at  the  present  day,  agree 
with  the  line  of  thought  I  then  adopted.  I  place  it  here 
as  an  incident  in  our  correspondence. 

I  called  it  "An  Afterthought."  I  submitted  it,  with 
a  thousand  apologies,  to  the  author  of  Little  Schoolmaster 
Mark,  and  I  prefaced  it  with  the  lines — 

No  cunning  hand  is  mine  to  touch  the  lyre, 
Yet  let  my  voice  be  heard  within  thy  choir. 

But  Little  Schoolmaster  Mark  was  not  dead. 
He  only  lay  in  a  trance,  motionless  and  still  as  death  ; 
so  that  all  around  him  thought  that  he  was  dead. 
He  looked  very  fair  as  he  lay  there.  A  calm  and 
sweet  expression,  with  a  touch  of  happy  wonder  in 
it,  was  seen  upon  his  face.  One  after  another  came 
and  looked  upon  him,  where  he  had  been  laid  out 
in  the  little  temple-like  building  which  adjoined  the 
house,  and  where  once  worship  was  carried  on.  It 
chanced  that  the  Princess  [wife]  and  the  Princess 
p 


210       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


Isoline  found  themselves  face  to  'face  one  day  with 
Little  Mark's  body  lying  between.  A  flush  of  half 
pity  and  half  shame  was  gathering  in  the  Princess's 
face  when  she  looked  up  and  met  the  Princess  Iso- 
line's  countenance,  which  was  wet  with  tears.  For  an 
instant  a  touch  of  defiance  seemed  to  tremble  on 
the  Princess's  lips,  and  then  she  drooped  her  head 
and  her  eyes  fell  on  the  calm,  marble  angel  face  of 
Litde  Mark ;  and  she  said  gently,  "  He  was  very 
good."  And  Princess  Isoline  whispered  in  choked 
accents,  "  And  so  beautiful."  "  Beautiful  and  good," 
said  a  voice  near  at  hand.  The  two  ladies  looked 
up  ;  the  Prince  was  there.  *'  The  things  fair  are 
sweet  :  sweeter  than  I  knew,"  said  the  Princess  Iso- 
line. "  The  things  good  are  sweeter  still,  my  sister," 
said  the  Prince's  wife.  "  Both  good  and  beautiful 
met  in  Mark,"  said  the  Prince  ;  "  and  only  in  him 
of  all  men  I  ever  knew,"  he  added,  as  if  speaking  to 
himself.  "  1  wonder  why,"  said  both  the  ladies, 
speaking  at  once. 

But  Little  Mark's  mind  was  far  away.  When  the 
sudden  fall  came  he  lost  all  thought  for  a  time,  and 
then  a  deep  and  exquisite  repose  was  his.  He  seemed 
to  be  in  an  air  so  light  that  he  hardly  touched  the 
ground  ;  and  so  pleasant — neither  too  hot  nor  too 
cold — that  a  dear  delight  of  being  took  possession 
of  him.  He  seemed  to  be  in  a  garden-house,  where 
birds  were  flying  and  flowers  were  blooming.  On  a 
branch  of  a  tree  he  saw  two  birds  :  one  was  of  most 
brilliant  plumage,  dazzling  as  a  bird  of  Paradise,  the 
other  was  a  dull  and  dowdy-featured  bird.  It  began 
to  sing  ;  its  voice  was  sweet  and  clear  as  an  angel's, 


J.  HENRY  SHORTHOUSE 


211 


but  the  brilliant-featured  bird  only  uttered  a  harsh 
note.  A  sadness  came  over  Little  Mark.  "  The 
fair  is  never  sweet,  nor  the  sweet  fair — not  even  in 
heaven,"  he  said,  for  Mark  thought  he  was  in  heaven. 
And  then  a  quiet,  patient  feeling  came  upon  him,  and 
he  said  to  himself,  "  I  must  wait."  He  watched ; 
and  presently  a  servant  came  in  and  spread  some  food 
upon  the  ground.  The  birds  flew  down  and  devoured 
it  ;  and  Little  Mark,  looking  at  the  pearly  white  food, 
said,  "  It  is  manna."  But  the  birds  soon  had  eaten 
it  all  up  ;  and  then  a  wonder  took  place.  The  dull- 
featured  bird  sang,  and  as  she  sang  her  plumage  grew 
bright  and  fair  ;  and  the  splendid-winged  bird  looked 
on,  and  tried  to  sing.  As  he  saw  the  wings  and 
feathers  of  his  companion  bird  grow  beautiful,  he 
seemed  to  find  voice,  and  his  croak  grew  into  a  song, 
loud  and  sweet.  And  the  two  birds  lifted  up  their 
voices  together  and  sang  till  the  voices  seemed  but  one, 
*'and  they  shook  out  their  fair  v/ings  and  made  their 
nest  together.  Then  Little  Mark  turned  to  the  ser- 
vant and  asked  what  food  it  was  which  made  the  fair 
grow  sweet  and  the  sweet  grow  fair.  And  the  servant 
answered,  "  It  is  Angels'  F'ood." 

And  then  the  vision  faded,  for  the  trance  was  fast 
coming  to  an  end  ;  and  he  heard  the  voice  near  him, 
which  was  saying,  "  1  wonder  why."  And  Little  Mark, 
still  dazed  with  his  vision,  and  not  knowing  that  he 
was  brought  back  to  life,  or  that  it  was  the  Prince 
who  was  speaking,  answered,  answering  his  own 
thoughts  more  than  the  question,  "All  because  of  the 
angels'  food,"  he  said. 

"  What  is  that  angels'  food  ? "  said  the  Prince. 
And  Mark  answered,  still  half  dreaming  out  his  own 


212       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


thoughts,  "  The  only  food  of  angels  is  love,  for  they 
feast  their  hearts  on  God,  and  God  is  Love." 

"  Mark  is  right,"  said  the  Prince,  as  Mark  started 
up  and  looked  round  him  in  surprise.  "  Mark  is 
right ;  only  when  the  good  and  the  beautiful  are 
nurtured  in  love  can  they  be  wedded."  "That  is 
it,"  said  Mark.  "  1  see  it  now.  Good  is  not  good 
that  springs  not  from  love,  nor  can  fair  be  the  fair 
that  grows  not  from  love  :  love  only  is  the  seed  from 
which  alike  the  fruits  of  life  and  the  flowers  of  life 
can  grow." 

No  more  was  said.  The  wife  of  the  Prince  and 
the  sister  of  the  Prince  kissed  one  another,  and  the 
Count  was  banished  from  the  court,  and  sweet  songs 
of  praise  were  heard  in  the  little  neglected  temple. 
And  Little  Mark  was  happy. 

Lansdowne, 

Edgbaston, 
March  7,  1884. 

Mv  DEAR  Canon  Boyd  Carpenter, 

Many  thanks  for  your  kind  letter  and  most 
kind  wish  to  see  us  at  Windsor  this  month.  I  have 
read  your  final  chapter  to  "  Little  Mark "  with  the 
greatest  pleasure  and  interest.  The  opening  is  singu- 
larly like  what  I  have  written,  only  I  think  Mark  is 
dead  and  I  fear  the  Princess  (wife)  must  go  through 
a  longer  purgation.  Your  idea,  I  think,  is  just  what 
we  want — the  ideal  of  the  Greeks — xaXoxayaSoj — the 
godlike  and  the  beautiful  in  one — what  we  want  is 
to  apply  it  to  real  life.  We  all  understand  that  Art 
should  be  religious,  but  it  is  more  difficult  to  understand 
how  Religion  may  be  an  Art. 


J.  HENRY  SHORTHOUSE  213 

I  am  not  without  hopes  that  it  may  gradually 
work  itself  out. 

As  to  your  most  kind  invitation,  we  very  seldom 
leave  home  in  the  winter,  as  we  are  neither  of  us  at 
all  strong,  and  are  very  dependent  upon  warmth,  espe- 
cially my  wife.  Your  offer  is  so  very  attractive  that 
we  can  hardly  deny  ourselves  such  a  pleasure.  We 
should  be  at  liberty  after  the  21st  (as  we  have  engage- 
ments up  to  that  day).  Should  you  like  us  to  spend 
Sunday  with  you,  or  would  the  Monday  or  Tuesday 
be  better .''  We  should  much  enjoy  a  couple  of  days 
with  Mrs.  Carpenter  and  yourself. 

You  will  not  let  us  come  unless  it  is  absolutely 
convenient  to  Mrs.  Carpenter  in  every  way. 

With  kindest  regards  from  my  wife, 
I  am. 

Yours  very  sincerely, 
[Signed)    J.  Henry  Shorthouse. 
P.S.    At  Col.  Maurice's  request  I  have  written 
an  article  on  his  father  for  the  Nineteenth  Century. 
It  is  a  wonderful  subject  and  a  great  honour,  but 
rather  terrible. 

I  was  asked  to  give  the  Annual  Address  to  the  members 
of  the  Midland  Institute  at  Birmingham,  and  I  wished 
to  refresh  and  enlarge  my  acquaintance  with  Birmingham 
worthies,  and  I  bethought  me  of  the  help  Mr.  Shorthouse 
could  give  me.  The  result  was  the  following  letter  which 
I  print  because  it  possesses  an  interest  of  its  own,  and 
because  it  discloses  a  side  of  Mr.  Shorthouse's  mind 
which  would  hardly  be  suspected  by  those  who  delighted 
in  his  works — 


214       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


Lansdowne, 

Edgbaston, 
Sixteenth  Sunday  after  Trinity, 

St.  Michael  and  All  Angels,  1895. 

My  dear  Bishop, 

Mrs.  Carpenter,  at  the  end  of  her  very  kind 
letter  says,  "  Can  Mr.  Shorthouse  tell  the  bishop  a  few 
of  the  most  important  Birmingham  worthies  "  I  am 
not  sure  whether  is  meant  past  or  present  worthies. 
The  fast  would  take  a  lot  of  thought  and  writing, 
and  the  present  would  imply  a  very  inodorous  task, 
which  I  would  rather  not  attempt,  but  a  few  thoughts 
occur  to  me  which,  while  not  mentioning  names,  seem 
to  indicate  some  phases  of  Birmingham  life  which,  I 
think,  are  not  without  use  in  the  present  day. 

Birmingham  was  a  free  town.,  not  a  corporation.,  and 
outside  the  "  Five  Mile  Act,''  and  in  the  days  of  the 
Restoration  a  sort  of  Cave  of  Adullam.  Anyone  might 
come  in  and  set  up  in  business,  or  Religion,  or  any- 
thing else.  This  accounts  for  the  great  preponderance 
of  Dissent  which  has  always  obtained  :  although  it 
is  worthy  of  remark  that  the  rector  of  St.  Martin  s 
(the  parish  church),  at  the  Restoration,  was  John  Ryland, 
a  Cavalier  parson  of  the  best  type ;  a  man  of  such  a 
character  that  these  chief  of  Dissenters,  together  with 
the  rest  of  the  people,  never  spoke  of  him  except  as 
"  that  Holy  man.'' 

It  is  a  remarkable  thing  that  this  "  freedom  of 
the  City  "  has  continued  to  the  present  day.  Scarcely 
a  single  man  who  occupies  an  important  position  was 
born  in  the  City.  I  do  not  think  that  any  one  of  the 
Members  of  Parliament  was  born  in  Birmingham.  / 
am  not  sure  of  Mr.  Dixon. 

But  what  I  want  to  arrive  at  is  the  statement  of 


J.  HENRY  SHORTHOUSE 


what  seems  to  me  to  be  a  continuation  of  the  best 
form  of  the  Feudal  System  which,  to  my  certain 
knowledge,  after  an  experience  on  my  own  part  of 
nearly  fifty  years,  and  on  the  part  of  my  family 
of  more  than  150,  of  the  manufacturers  of  Birming- 
ham— a  close  and  friendly  relationship  between  the  master 
and  his  best  workmen.  This  did  not  imply  any  non- 
sense of  Socialism,  or  any  interference  on  the  part  of 
the  workman,  but  a  thorough  recognition  of  the 
relative  value  of  the  position  as  master  and  servant, 
and  a  firm  response  to  the  duties  of  responsibility  on 
both  sides.  I  am  far  from  claiming  this  characteristic 
as  peculiar  to  Birmingham  ;  I  have  no  doubt  that  it 
existed,  and  still  exists,  in  Yorkshire  and  other  great 
manufacturing  centres.  I  am  sure  that  it  exists  in 
Birmingham  at  the  present  day  :  but  the  establishment 
of  Limited  Liability  companies  naturally  tends  to  do 
away  with  this  feeling,  and  I  seem  to  feel  that  such 
a  thought  as  this,  put  in  your  inimitable  way  and 
words,  would  not  be  without  use  in  an  address  to 
Birmingham  men  in  their  town  hall.  I  remember 
when  I  was  a  boy,  just  in  business,  seeing  a  distin- 
guished manufacturer,  a  man  who  Hved  in  a  beautiful 
country  house  in  a  little  park — there  were  such  places 
within  two  or  three  miles  of  the  centre  of  Birmingham 
fifty  years  ago — sitting  on  one  side  of  the  old-fashioned 
carved  mantelpiece  of  his  office  with  an  old  workman 
(not  a  manager  but  a  foreman  in  his  working  dress) 
on  the  other  side  over  a  friendly  cup  of  tea,  engaged 
in  important  and  interesting  discussion  on  manufac- 
turing matters,  and  whenever  a  workman,  old  or 
young,  displayed  any  industry  or  any  talent,  he  did 
not  miss  his  reward.    I  know  that  the  same  sort  of 


2i6       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


thing  is  going  on  now  ;  but  not,  I  fear,  to  such 
a  universal  extent. 

I  cannot  close  this  letter,  seeing  that  you  are  to 
be  guest  of  Mr.  Chamberlain,  without  saying  that 
I  am  very  much  impressed  by  the  unquestionable  and 
striking  success  of  the  great  idea  and  scheme  which 
he  originated  for  the  advancement  of  Birmingham  to 
the  rank  of  a  county  metropolis,  and  the  consequent 
improvement  and  advantage  of  all  its  inhabitants. 
Coming  as  this  does  from  a  perfectly  impartial  source, 
from  one  not  at  all  prejudiced  in  favour  of  Mr. 
Chamberlain,  it  may  be  of  some  value,  and  at  any 
rate  it  will  end  my  letter,  as  I  began  it,  in  recog- 
nition of  the  work  of  Birmingham  people  who  were 
not  born  in  the  city. 

We  shall  only   have   a  few   days'   holiday  in 
October  at  Weston-Super-Mare,  so  must  postpone 
the  pleasure  of  a  visit  to  Ripon  to  a  future  year. 
I  am,  my  dear  Bishop, 
Yours  very  affectionately  and  admiringly, 

(Signed)    J.  Henry  Shorthouse. 

Mr.  Shorthouse  delighted  in  hearing  good  stories,  and 
he  had  a  way  of  turning  them  over  in  his  mind,  and  then 
presenting  them  to  his  friends  in  a  form  edited  and  em- 
bellished by  himself.  I  remember  well  how  he  came  down 
one  morning  at  Ripon,  and  rehearsed  with  great  delight  his 
own  adorned  version  of  a  tale  I  had  told  him  the  previous 
night.  His  genuine  enjoyment  of  things  beautiful  and 
things  humorous  gave  a  charm  to  his  visits  :  he  had  none 
of  that  timid  conventionality  which  lives  in  a  perpetual 
panic  lest  it  should  by  accident  lose  its  correct  pose.  He 


J.  HENRY  SHORTHOUSE  217 


understood  that  in  this  life  God  had  given  us  all  things  to 
enjoy,  and  he  rejoiced  in  all  the  play  of  nature  in  its  beauty 
and  in  its  mirthfulness.  All  that  was  base  and  unworthy 
was  outside  the  circle  in  which  he  lived.  His  spirit  was 
citadelled,  like  the  New  Jerusalem  ;  without  there  might 
be  dogs,  but  within  there  were  the  lovely,  joyous  and 
laughable  things  in  which  men's  hearts  could  take  delight. 

This  happy  spirit  remained  with  him,  I  believe,  to  the 
last.  I  saw  him  on  what  was  practically  his  deathbed  :  he 
was  worn  with  his  long  illness — he  was  painfully  emaciated, 
and  I  feared  that  he  might  be  unequal  to  any  conversation. 
My  first  instinct  was  to  leave  as  soon  as  I  could  ;  but  I  was 
soon  undeceived.  His  mental  vigour  and  clearness  were 
remarkable  :  he  entered  into  discussion  of  many  points  with 
his  old  eagerness  and  quaint  originality.  I  spoke  of  his 
little  parable  of  the  playing  cards,  and  he  told  me  that  a 
poem  containing  the  same  idea  had  been  sent  him  from 
America.  We  spoke  of  other  matters,  still  deeper  and 
diviner,  and  the  happy,  childlike  spirit  of  trust  breathed 
through  his  utterances. 

When  I  left  him  1  knew  that  I  had  seen  him  for  the 
last  time,  and  it  was,  and  has  been  ever  since,  a  joy  to  look 
back  and  recall  the  joyousness  of  one  who  lived  as  though 
the  upper  atmospheres  of  life  were  as  real  as  the  lower,  and 
were  those  with  which  his  soul  had  the  nearest  affinity. 


MY  HOURS  OF  SICKNESS 


Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  be  smitten  with  an  illness 
which  brings  no  pain,  but  just  powerlessness  ?  When  you 
take  up  a  book,  and  its  weight  is  too  much  for  your  inert 
hands  ?  When  you  begin  to  read,  and  the  weary  brain 
cannot  take  in  a  single  idea,  and  the  words  and  letters  seem 
a  concatenation  of  senseless  symbols  ?  When  you  can  only 
lie  still,  and  all  power  of  reaction  is  faint  ?  When  you  are 
too  feeble  to  be  other  than  content,  but  yet  are  conscious 
that  days  are  monotonous  and  uninteresting  ?  When  you 
easily  become  the  victim  of  some  familiar  tune  which 
tyrannously  repeats  itself  to  your  inner  hearing  ?  When 
you  wonder  whether  any  happy  distraction  could  deliver 
your  brain  from  the  reiteration  of  impish  ghostly  sounds  ? 
When  everything  seems  to  have  come  to  a  standstill:  when 
the  hopes  that  the  time  of  illness  may,  by  its  enforced 
leisure,  give  you  time  for  reading,  are  proved  to  be  vain  ? 
When  the  blood  forsakes  the  brain,  and  the  indifference 
which-  comes  from  weakness  reigns  supreme  over  the  low 
and  stagnant  life  ? 

I  have  known  such  days — prolonged  into  weeks — when 
sleep  refused  to  refresh  my  nights  or  thought  my  days  : 
when  my  wife  would  read  to  me  night  after  night  for 
hours  at  a  time,  till  I  heard  in  her  voice  that  much-needed 


MY  HOURS  OF  SICKNESS  219 


slumber  was  calling  to  her  to  cease,  while  my  bloodless 
brain  only  caught  fugitive  fragments  from  the  legends  of 
Don  Quixote  or  Gil  Bias.  Then  we  would  try  to  sleep  ; 
but  as  soon  as  the  light  was  put  out  and  the  story  put  away, 
wakefulness  would  come  to  me  with  a  yearning  for  the 
happy  unconsciousness  of  sleep.  And  then  some  tag  of 
painfully  appropriate  poetry  would  begin  to  haunt  me — 

"  O  Sleep  !  it  is  a  pleasant  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole." 

But  though  the  lines  would  jingle  in  my  ears,  the  blissful 
sleep  did  not  glide  into  my  soul. 

One  day  during  such  weary  experiences  my  wife  said  to 
me,  "  Why  not  paint  "  Paint  !  I  had  never  had  a  lesson 
in  my  life.  Was  it  not  Cato  that  began  to  learn  Greek  at 
sixty  That  was  more  reasonable  and  possible  than  that  I 
could  learn  to  paint  at  fifty-three  !  However,  if  I  could 
not  paint,  I  might  play  the  fool  with  colours,  and  a  paint 
brush  is  not  too  great  a  weight  for  a  tired  hand.  I  copied 
some  water  colours,  and  a  fine  mess  of  things  I  made  ;  but 
at  length  I  amused  myself  with  clumsy  efforts  to  give  form 
to  passing  fancies.  I  suppose  I  felt  like  the  builders  of  our 
abbeys  and  cathedrals  when  they  were  left  free  to  run  riot 
with  their  imagination  over  fantastic  designs  for  gargoyles 
or  the  mouths  of  water  spouts. 

I  tried  painting  objects — a  glass  filled  with  flov/ers  ;  but 
my  wayward  fancy  scorned  to  be  tied  within  such  limits. 
There  is  a  curious  humorous  instinct  which  visits  us  in 
times  of  illness,  and  I  wanted  to  be  amused  ;  and  so  I  tried 
to  amuse  myself.    If  the  reader  will  forgive  the  exhibition 


220       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


of  my  frailty,  he  shall  have  the  opportunity  of  laughing  with 
me,  or  at  me,  as  the  mood  may  suit  him. 

Here  are  some  of  them.  Call  them  the  perverse  fancies 
of  a  sick  brain  if  you  will  ;  yet  they  served  to  pass  away 
some  weary  hours,  in  which  strenuous  effort  of  body  and 
mind  were  alike  out  of  my  power. 

They  will  explain  themselves  ;  but  1  make  a  few  notes 
here.  The  death  duties,  or  rather  the  ways  in  which  they 
are  levied,  seem  to  me  neither  wise  nor  considerate.  The 
hour  of  death  brings  sorrow  and  distraction  enough,  without 
adding  the  inquisitorial  power  which  comes  to  reduce  re- 
sources at  a  time  when,  perhaps,  financial  pressure  is  great. 
If  the  Government  had  adopted  the  suggestion  of  a  well- 
known  banker,  the  country  would  have  benefited  in  revenue 
and  the  present  harsh  and  oppressive  system  would  have 
given  place  to  a  method  more  generally  acceptable.  But 
the  British  public  show  great  patience  and  forbearance,  even 
if  they  do  not  manifest  much  wit,  in  allowing  the  present 
unwise  and  burdensome  system  to  remain. 

The  banker's  suggestion  was  that  the  death  duties  should 
be  raised  by  a  system  of  insurance  payments,  and  that  the 
Government  should  be  their  own  insurers.  An  annual 
payment  would  gladly  be  borne  by  many  whose  great  desire 
is  to  secure  the  welfare  of  wife  and  children.  Such  a  system 
would  have  given  to  the  Government  a  much  steadier 
revenue,  besides  the  possible  profit  on  the  insurance 
business. 


WAR  MEMORIES 


There  is  some  fitness  to-day  in  recalling  memories 
of  the  Crimean  War.  It  stands  out  in  my  memory 
with  special  vividness,  not  only  because  it  was  the  first 
European  war  of  my  lifetime,  but  because  I  had  kinsmen 
who  fought  in  it  and  who  were  associated  more  or  less 
closely  with  its  vicissitudes. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  day  when  as  lads  we  stood 
behind  the  railings  of  St.  Nicholas'  Church  and  saw  the 
troops  marching  by  on  their  way  to  embark.  The  old 
tunes  and  songs  of  that  day  sometimes  ring  in  my  brain, 
I  think  that  "  The  girl  I  left  behind  me "  and  "  Three 
cheers  for  the  Red,  White  and  Blue  "  were  among  the  most 
popular. 

I  remember  how,  a  little  later,  when  we  were  in  Ireland, 
we  bade  good-bye  to  my  cousin,  William  Boyd,  who  was 
going  to  join  the  Scots  Greys.  He,  poor  fellow,  never  came 
back  :  he  was  one  of  the  cholera  victims.  Talking  of 
cholera,  1  recall  a  story  told  me  by  Lord  Strafford,  when 
he  was  Colonel  Byng.  I  often  met  him  at  Windsor,  and 
the  tale  he  told  was  one  of  the  most  curious  I  have 
ever  heard. 

It  was  during  the  terrible  Crimean  campaign,  when 
cholera  and  disease  were  working  havoc  among  our  troops. 

221 


222       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


One  day  it  was  reported  that  a  certain  officer  was  dead — a 
victim  of  cholera.  The  same  evening,  when  a  few  brother 
officers  were  gathered,  the  conversation  turned  on  the  dead 
man.  He  was  senior  in  years  to  many  of  the  officers  ;  he 
was  one  of  those  men  who  had  retired  from  active  service, 
but  who,  on  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  had  offered  to  fight  for 
his  country  :  he  joined  the  regiment  as  what  would  to-day 
be  called  a  "  dugout."  It  had  been  a  question  among  the 
younger  officers  whether  the  Major  (I  think  that  was  his 
rank)  wore  a  wig  ;  and  now,  as  the  little  brotherhood  of 
officers  gossiped  in  the  tent,  they  reverted  to  the  question 
of  the  wig  :  Did  the  Major  wear  a  wig  .''  "  Well,"  said  one, 
"  we  can  settle  that  now  by  going  and  looking."  The  regi- 
mental doctor  was  present  ;  he  had  given  the  certificate 
that  the  Major  had  died  of  cholera,  and  he  was  ready  to 
go  with  the  party  to  the  mortuary.  A  doctor  attached  to 
another  regiment  accompanied  them  on  their  expedition  of 
investigation.  They  entered  the  mortuary  :  there  lay  the 
cold,  impassive  form  of  the  Major  who  had  challenged  their 
curiosity.  As  they  were  looking,  the  doctor  from  the  other 
regiment  exclaimed,  "That  man  is  not  dead."  The  regi- 
mental doctor  differed.  "  The  question  is  easily  tested,"  said 
the  other  doctor.  The  test  was  applied  :  a  slight  prick  and 
the  blood  began  to  flow.  The  man  was  not  dead.  It  was 
a  case  of  cholera  trance.  Restoration  measures  were  taken 
and  the  Major's  life  was  saved.  Those  who  love  to  mark 
the  part  which  little  things  play  in  the  drama  of  life  will 
reflect  that  in  this  case  the  Major  owed  his  life  to  the  legend 
of  the  wig.  We,  have  heard  of  a  man's  life  hanging  on  a 
hair,  but  never  before  of  its  hanging  on  a  wig. 


WAR  MEMORIES 


223 


In  the  Crimean  War  I  had  several  relatives.  The  most 
distinguished  soldier  of  these  was  Sir  Colin  Campbell,  after- 
wards Lord  Clyde.  I  have  explained  in  my  previous 
volume  the  story  of  his  early  life  and  of  his  connexion 
with  my  grandmother — I  have  a  cousin  now  alive  who 
went  to  the  Crimea  with  a  letter  of  introduction  from  my 
grandmother  to  Sir  Colin.  When  this  cousin  of  mine 
visited  my  grandmother,  she  said  to  him,  "  When  Colin 
Campbell  left  he  gave  me  a  seal,  and  he  promised  that 
whenever  I  sent  him  a  letter  sealed  with  that  seal,  he  would 
do,  if  in  his  power,  whatever  I  asked  him — I  am  now  going 
to  seal  my  letter  of  introduction  with  that  seal."  My 
cousin,  Duncan  MacNeill,  took  the  letter  and  went  to  the 
Crimea.  He  joined  his  own  regiment,  the  Scots  Greys  ; 
and  now  he  tells  me  in  his  happy,  whimsical  way  what  he 
did — or  rather  did  not  do — with  the  letter.  He  never 
presented  it  to  Sir  Colin.  "  I  argued,"  he  says  smilingly 
to  me,  "  I  argued  to  myself  in  this  way  :  If  I  present  the 
letter  Sir  Colin  will  put  me  on  the  staff,  and  I  shall  have 
to  leave  my  own  regiment.  I  will  stay  where  I  am."  So 
he  remained  with  his  own  men,  and  took  part  in  the  siege 
of  Sebastopol. 

When  Sebastopol  fell,  he  was  among  those  who  entered 
the  fortress  to  occupy  and  guard  it.  He  was  full  of  curiosity 
to  see  the  small  defence-chambers  which  the  Russian  soldiers 
had  used,  and  he  obtained  leave  to  examine  one.  Soon  after 
he  came  out,  a  young  English  officer  was  seen  to  emerge 
from  one  of  these  dens  :  he  had  a  book  in  his  hand.  The 
commanding  officer  hailed  the  young  man,  and  demanded 
the   book.    It  was  given   to   him.    The  commanding 


224        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


officer  glanced  hastily  over  its  pages  and,  looking  up,  he 
said,  "  I  don't  suppose  that  many  of  you  can  read  Russian  ; 
but  here  is  a  curious  thing.  This  book  which  has  been 
left  behind  by  the  Russian  soldiers  is  a  Russian  translation 
of  Dickens'  Pickwick  Papers."  So  our  opponents  in  the 
Crimean  War  were  able  to  amuse  themselves  during  the 
long  hours  of  the  siege  with  the  works  of  an  English  writer 
— probably  the  most  popular  writer  of  the  time.  It  is  a 
happy  omen  when  the  interchange  of  literature  can  continue 
between  peoples  even  in  time  of  war.  The  brotherhood  of 
letters  is  a  bond  of  peace,  and  it  is  a  deplorable  thing  that 
Germany  should  have  used  up  so  much  literary  energy  in 
sowing  seeds  of  distrust  and  hostility  during  recent  years. 
This  has  added  a  bitterness  to  strife  which  had  no  counter- 
part among  the  combatants  in  the  Crimean  War. 

The  story  of  the  Crimean  War  was,  like  most  of  our  wars, 
a  story  of  stupefying  blunders.  The  sufferings  of  our  troops 
in  the  Crimea  were  great,  and  the  surprising  part  of  the 
matter  was  that  they  were  needless.  For  long  the  troops 
suffered  in  patience,  but  at  last  the  tale  of  their  pains  and 
privations  became  known.  Public  opinion  demanded  in- 
quiry, and  in  deference  to  it,  two  commissioners  were 
appointed.  One  of  these  was  Sir  John  MacNeill,  whose 
brilliant  and  heroic  work  in  Persia  had  done  so  much  for 
British  influence  there  :  as  his  comrade  in  the  commission 
Colonel  Tulloch  was  appointed.  They  set  off  for  the 
Crimea,  animated  by  the  simple  desire  to  report  truthfully 
and  advise  as  wisely  as  they  could  for  the  health  and  feeding 
of  the  army.  They  were  not  welcomed  too  warmly  by 
the  officials  of  the  army,  who  felt  that  their  efficiency  was 


WAR  MEMORIES 


225 


questioned  by  the  appointment  of  the  commission.  Like 
all  who  are  conscious  of  shortcomings  they  resented  inquiry. 
In  spite  of  difficulties  a  report  was  drawn  up.  It  was 
inevitable  that  it  should  call  attention  to  blunders  and 
negligence.  Supplies  were  in  Balaclava  harbour,  while  the 
soldiers  were  suffering  from  want  :  food  in  plenty  could  be 
had  from  Black  Sea  ports.  Our  troops  were  starving  amid 
plenty,  because  the  transport  was  inadequate  and  the  com- 
missariat unintelligent.  It  was  the  usual  story  of  well- 
intentioned  blundering.  The  commissioners  had  done  their 
work  :  they  presented  their  report  to  Parliament  ;  and  then 
the  curse  of  political  partisanship  began  to  show  itself.  To 
shield  some  cabinet  minister  from  blame,  the  facts  brought 
to  light  must  be  obscured,  and  to  do  this  the  commissioners 
must  be  disparaged.  Military  pride,  which  had  resented  a 
parliamentary  inquiry  into  army  affairs,  joined  with  political 
necessity  to  belittle  or  ignore  the  services  of  men  who  had, 
at  the  bidding  of  Parliament,  undertaken  a  difficult  and 
ungrateful  task.  Further  inquiry  was  demanded,  and  to 
appease  official  jealousy  and  to  protect  discredited  incom- 
petency the  further  inquiry  must  be  conducted  by  the 
military.  This  was  the  device  of  incompetency  to  cover 
uncomfortable  facts.  To  crown  all,  the  commissioners  who 
had  made  their  report  were  to  be  summoned  before  the 
new  board  of  inquiry  as  though  they  were  accusers  instead 
of  authorized  investigators  acting  under  Parliament.  The 
position  was  absurd.  Either  the  commissioners  should 
never  have  been  sent,  or  they  should  have  been  supported. 
Parliament  had  sent  them  :  the  Government  had  acquiesced 
and  had  sanctioned  their  mission,  and  now  that  difficulties 
Q 


226        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


created,  not  by  new  facts,  but  by  wounded  officialism,  had 
arisen.  Government  left  their  own  commissioners  in  the 
lurch  and  sought,  like  Pilate,  to  wash  their  hands  of  the 
affair. 

Sir  John  MacNeill,  as  might  have  been  expected  of  a 
self-respecting  man,  declined  to  attend  the  new  inquiry. 
He  had  done  what  was  asked  :  he  had  given  his  report  ; 
so  far  as  he  was  concerned  the  matter  was  finished.  He 
had  nothing  to  withdraw,  nothing  for  which  to  apologize. 
It  was  a  slight  on  his  integrity  to  expect  him  to  attend. 
The  Government  must  bear  its  own  shame  if  shame  there 
was.  His  hands  were  clean  as  his  report  was  honest.  His 
refusal  to  attend  was  the  only  dignified  course.  Not  only 
was  no  recognition  of  his  services  forthcoming  :  the  Govern- 
ment allowed  him  to  be  victim  of  unjust  and  unworthy 
suspicions. 

Happily  for  England,  the  public  mind  is  often  more 
healthy  than  the  official  mind.  While  the  Government  was 
seeking  to  conciliate  jealousies  and  accommodate  political 
differences,  the  people  of  the  country  saw  clearly  the 
immense  services  which  the  commissioners  had  rendered. 
The  people  knew  that  somebody  had  blundered  :  that  the 
commissariat  department  had  been  hopelessly  mismanaged  ; 
the  people  recognized  the  public  spirit  and  clear  honesty  of 
the  two  commissioners,  and  there  was  presented  to  them 
an  address  of  public  thanks,  which  did  much  to  compensate 
for  the  lack  of  official  recognition.  It  was  certainly  more 
valuable,  because  more  genuine,  than  the  precarious  approval 
of  politicians  blinded  by  partisan  timidities. 

Later  on.  Government  gave  in  a  halting  fashion  tardy 


WAR  MEMORIES  227 

and  inadequate  recognition  to  the  men  who  had  courageously 
rendered  such  invaluable  public  service. 

GORDON  AND  WOLSELEY 

I  suppose  that  wc  ought  to  dwell  only  on  happy 
memories  ;  but,  if  so,  we  should  be  dropping  out  of  our 
thoughts  some  of  the  experiences  of  life.  I  recall  one  time 
when,  in  common  with  the  greater  number  of  Englishmen, 
my  heart  passed  through  the  stages  of  anxiety,  doubt,  hope, 
and  disappointed  indignation.  It  was  the  time  when  all  our 
thoughts  turned  to  the  East,  and  we  were  watching  the 
lonely  figure  of  the  man  who,  in  solitude,  represented  the 
majesty  and  honour  of  England — when  it  became  clear  to 
most  of  us  that  Gordon's  life  was  not  secure  in  Khartoum. 
Now  his  statue  is  there  and  stately  buildings  have  arisen, 
which  tell  the  tale  of  the  power  which  even  after  death  may 
be  wielded  by  a  good  and  honest  man.  But  then  apprehension 
filled  our  hearts  ;  for  Gordon  was  alone  and  unsupported  ; 
his  word  was  not  being  made  good  to  the  peoples  around 
him  ;  the  Government  seemed  apathetic — indifferent  to  the 
fate  of  the  man  who  represented  his  country  in  a  distant  and 
doubtful  land.  Public  feeling  began  to  stir.  If  the  Govern- 
ment would  do  nothing,  the  country  was  ready  to  do  it. 
The  Times  was  ready  to  lead  in  the  equipment  and  dispatch 
of  a  volunteer  army  to  go  on  an  expedition  of  rescue  or 
support.  The  columns  of  our  newspapers  were  filled  with 
letters  which  expressed  surprise,  indignation,  anxiety,  but 
all  animated  by  the  same  spirit  of  readiness  to  help  an 
enterprise  which  all  thought  was  the  duty  of  Government, 


228        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LTFE 


but  which,  if  the  Government  failed,  the  country  was  bound 
in  honour  to  undertake. 

It  was  some  relief  to  our  anxiety  when  at  last  the 
Government  broke  silence.  We  were  assured  that  the 
Government  was  quite  alive  to  its  responsibilities  concerning 
General  Gordon.  We  took  this  to  mean  that  they  were 
prepared  to  send  a  mission  of  relief  ;  but  we  were  mistaken, 
for  we  did  not  weigh  or  measure  the  words  of  politicians, 
and  so  we  failed  to  realize  that  to  be  assured  that  the 
Government  were  alive  to  their  responsibilities  did  not  mean 
that  they  recognized  special  responsibility  for  Gordon's 
safety.  We  were  mistaken,  fatally  mistaken  ;  the  official 
words  reassured  the  anxious,  and  the  practical  steps  for  the 
raising  of  a  relief  force  were  abandoned. 

But  time  went  on,  and  no  rescuing  force  was  sent  out  ; 
as  the  season  advanced  the  difficulties  of  a  successful  enter- 
prise increased.  We  all  know  what  happened.  Gordon 
was  killed  ;  our  expedition  was  too  late.  It  seems  to  be  an 
English  failing — or  rather  a  failing  of  English  governments. 
There  is  a  proverb  which  says  "  To  be  wise  too  late  is  the 
exactest  definition  of  a  fool  "  ;  but  to  the  Government  which 
let  Gordon  perish  a  stronger  word  ought  to  be  applied. 
The  deceived  people  of  this  country  ought  to  have  ostracized 
the  Government  which  allowed  this  dishonour  to  befall 
them. 

One  eager  apologist  for  the  Government  was  in  the  habit 
of  declaring  that  the  expedition  had  been  sent  at  the  time 
which,  in  the  opinion  of  experts,  was  sufficiently  early  and 
the  fittest.  Once  when  he  made  this  statement  in  my  hear- 
ing, I  ventured  to  express  a  doubt.    I  had  good  reason  for 


WAR  MEMORIES 


229 


it,  but  I  could  not  at  the  time  disclose  my  authority,  which 
came  from  Queen  Victoria,  so  I  was  obliged  to  be  silent  as 
the  defender  of  the  Government  reiterated,  with  an  air  of 
unquestionable  confidence,  his  statement.  Later,  I  had  the 
opportunity  of  asking  Lord  Wolseley  what  were  the  facts 
of  the  case.  I  happened  to  sit  next  to  him  at  the  Royal 
Academy  dinner.  It  was  in  1888,  and  the  evening  was 
memorable  to  me  because  of  the  high  order  of  the  speak- 
ing, and  the  very  striking  speech  of  Lord  Rosebery,  who 
had  to  speak  in  a  discouraging  atmosphere,  and  showed 
great  skill  and  self-command  under  very  difficult  circum- 
stances. During  a  quiet  interval  I  asked  Lord  Wolseley  to 
tell  me,  if  he  was  at  liberty  to  do  so,  whether  the  Gordon 
Relief  Expedition  had  been  sent  out  at  a  fitting  time.  He 
told  me  quite  readily  and  frankly  that  he  had  urged  that 
the  expedition  should  be  sent  months  before  ;  that  Lord 
Hartington  wished  to  send  it,  but  that  Mr.  Gladstone  would 
not.  He  spoke  of  his  affection  for  Gordon  ;  so  that 
personal  as  well  as  professional  reasons  made  him  wish  to 
start  while  there  was  time  to  secure  the  success  of  the 
expedition. 

The  dilatoriness— to  call  it  by  no  worse  name — the 
dilatoriness  of  the  Government  was  bad  enough  ;  but  after 
the  assurance  which  disarmed  public  anxiety  for  Gordon,  the 
delay  was  criminal.  It  was  a  blot,  and  a  serious  blot,  upon 
the  record  of  a  great  career. 

Lord  Wolseley  was  full  of  interesting  recollections,  and 
once  he  gave  me  the  story  of  an  adventure  of  his  in  early  life, 
and  the  encounter  with  Lord  Clyde  which  followed  it.  He 
told  me  this  when  we  met  at  Canterbury  in  the  opening 


230       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


days  of  the  twentieth  century.  This  was  the  story  :  As  a 
young  officer  he  took  part,  as  we  know,  in  the  siege  of 
Lucknow.  He  received  orders  from  Lord  Clyde  to  seize 
and  hold  a  certain  tower  which  would  give  command  of 
one  district ;  on  entering  the  town  he  made  for  this  tower, 
and  after  a  struggle  succeeded  in  occupying  it.  When  he 
took  notice  of  the  neighbourhood  he  discovered  that  near  at 
hand  there  was  another  tower  which  would,  if  taken,  give 
him  an  improved  position  ;  he  accordingly  gathered  his 
men,  attacked  the  place,  took  the  loftier  tower,  and  was  able 
to  establish  himself  in  a  stronger  and  more  commanding 
situation.  "  After  I  had  done  it,"  he  said,  "  and  when  things 
were  settling  down  after  the  fight,  I  took  care  to  keep  out 
of  Lord  Clyde's  way  ;  for  I  knew  that  he  would  scold  me." 
But  the  interview  could  not  long  be  postponed,  and  soon 
Lord  Clyde  met  him,  and  let  loose  his  tongue  in  vigorous 
and  emphatic  terms,  blaming  him  for  exceeding  orders. 
Lord  Clyde,  I  gathered,  could  use  strong  language  when  he 
chose  ;  he  indulged  in  it  that  day  ;  but  when  he  had  finished 
his  set  speech  of  condemnation,  he  shook  Wolseley  warmly 
by  the  hand  and  said,  "  But  you  did  quite  right."  So  the 
sting  was  taken  out  of  the  censure  ;  the  cause  of  discipHne 
was  maintained,  and  the  promptness  of  courageous  initiation 
was  approved  by  the  old  veteran. 

He  also  told  me  that  when  the  soldiers  entered  the 
town,  nothing  would  or  could  keep  them  from  drinking 
any  wine  they  came  across.  They  had  been  warned  that  the 
natives  had  poisoned  the  wine,  but  fear  did  not  restrain 
them — indeed,  the  men  believed  that  the  tale  of  poisoned 
wine  had  been  invented  to  prevent  them  taking  it.  For- 


WAR  MEMORIES 


231 


tunately,  the  wine  drunk  on  the  occasion  did  not  prove  to 
be  poisoned. 

There  are  some  who  say  that  justice  has  not  been  done 
to  the  services  which  Lord  Wolseley  rendered  to  the  army 
in  promoting  its  efficiency,  and  improving  its  fighting  power. 
This  is  a  matter  beyond  my  judgment.  I  can  only  narrate 
things  which  interested  me,  and  which  were  told  me  in 
simple  and  soldier-like  fashion  by  Lord  Wolseley.  He 
was  always,  as  I  knew  him,  kindly  and  natural  in  manner,  as 
became  one  who  had  served  his  country  well. 

LORD  ROBERTS 

From  time  to  time  I  have  heard  conversations  in  which 
the  characteristic  qualities  of  various  races  have  been  dis- 
cussed. Some  of  these  have  possessed  special  interest, 
either  because  of  the  experience  of  those  who  have  taken 
part  in  them,  or  because  of  the  coincidence  of  opinion  which 
has  been  brought  to  light  ;  or  perhaps  the  way  in  which 
some  popular  delusion  has  been  shattered.  Of  this  latter 
class  I  may  mention  the  Irishman,  who  is  as  little  under- 
stood in  England  as  is  the  Hindoo.  The  Irishman  on  the 
stage  is  usually  as  unlike  an  Irishman  as  the  stage  parson  is 
unlike  the  real  thing.  Perhaps,  however,  it  is  better  to 
let  popular  delusions  have  their  way  ;  they  are  at  least 
picturesque,  and  though  hopelessly  inaccurate,  they  serve  to 
preserve  a  type  of  character  which  it  is  pleasant  to  believe 
represents  a  class  or  type. 

The  Irishman  is  supposed  to  be  an  inexact  thinker,  a 
man  who  refuses  to  take  a  serious  view  of  life,  because  he 


232        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


is  always  fascinated  by  the  humour  of  things,  and  he  prefers 
a  joke  to  any  piece  of  business  ;  he  is,  moreover,  an  im- 
prudent and  usually  an  impecunious  creature  ;  money  slips 
quickly  through  his  fingers,  and  he  is  as  careless  of  coin  as 
he  is  about  keeping  his  roof  weather-tight  and  his  bedding 
in  repair  ;  he  is  untidy,  and  he  does  not  mind  living  in  a 
dirty  and  slipshod  fashion  ;  he  is  plausible  and  amiable,  and 
if  he  does  not  tell  the  truth  it  is  only  because  his  amiability 
refuses  to  wound  or  dishearten  you.  The  happy-go-lucky 
Irishman  goes  laughing  through  life,  waving  his  shillelagh, 
flinging  out  his  jokes,  and  carries  his  childish  insouciance  to 
the  grave.  Such  is  an  approximation  to  the  picture  of  the 
Irishman  that  is  accepted  by  a  large  proportion  of  the  B'-itish 
public. 

But  Ireland,  like  England,  is  a  country  of  contradictions, 
and  when  we  speak  of  Irishmen,  it  would  be  well  to  ask 
whether  we  mean  a  man  of  the  north,  or  a  man  of  the 
south  ;  or  indeed  of  east  or  west.  Races  in  Ireland  have 
blended,  and  Celt,  Saxon,  Dane  and  Scot — yes,  and  Spaniard 
too,  have  left  their  mark  upon  the  old  country.  The 
fabled  Irishman  whose  portrait  I  have  sketched  is  not, 
after  all,  to  be  found  as  a  matter  of  course  anywhere  in 
Ireland.  You  may  meet  him  now  and  again  in  Dublin,  and 
you  may  find  him  in  a  Wicklow  village.  You  will  not  find 
him  in  Belfast,  and  I  doubt  whether  you  will  be  likely  to 
meet  him  in  Galway  or  Cork.  The  man  of  Celtic  race  is 
the  man  who  would  be  selected  by  most  people  who  were 
looking  for  a  typical  Irishman  ;  but  the  man  of  Celtic  race 
bears  little  resemblance  to  the  laughing,  irrelevant  creature 
of  the  stage.    The  Celt  is  timid  and  practical,  tenacious  of 


WAR  MEMORIES 


233 


family  ties,  and  willing  to  sacrifice  himself  for  family  interests  ; 
he  is  affectionate,  and  his  affection,  blending  with  a  timid 
dread  of  the  future,  creates  a  certain  inconsistency  of 
character  which,  because  it  puzzles  people,  is  generally 
ignored.  The  strong  sentiment  of  family  affection  gives 
rise  to  a  momentary  extravagance  ;  but  the  apprehension  of 
the  future  establishes  an  almost  penurious  thriftiness.  It  is 
here  that  British  judgment  is  so  greatly  astray.  If  we  measure 
an  Englishman  with  an  Irishman  on  money  matters,  you 
will  find  that  the  money-saving  instinct  is  much  stronger 
in  the  Irishman  than  in  the  Englishman.  The  Englishman 
possesses  a  self-reliance  which  tempts  him  to  ignore  the 
future  and  the  chance  of  a  rainy  day.  The  artisans  of 
England  are  not  given  to  thrift.  They  spend  their  wages  up 
to  the  hilt ;  for  they  believe  that  what  has  been  done  and  won 
once  can  be  done  and  won  again.  This  difference  explains, 
1  think,  the  fact  that  the  savings'  banks  returns  in  Ireland 
are  so  much  higher  in  proportion  in  Ireland  than  in  England. 
Many  an  Irishman  who  lives  in  a  hovel,  which  probably  an 
Englishman  would  disdain  to  occupy,  has  a  store-stocking 
up  the  chimney,  and  could  cross  your  hand  with  silver  if  he 
would.  But  this  timidity  which  leads  him  to  provide  against 
bad  times  does  not  imply  any  lack  of  courage.  On  the 
field  of  war  the  Irishman  will  not  be  one  whit  behind  the 
Englishman  or  Scotchman  in  deeds  of  daring. 

One  morning  at  breakfast,  at  Sandringham,  three  or  four 
guests  met  who  were  leaving  by  the  morning  train.  Lord 
Roberts  and  Mr.  Arthur  Balfour  were  at  the  table,  and 
presently  we  were  joined  by  a  Foreign  Minister  whose 
name  I  have  forgotten.    The  conversation  turned  on  the 


234       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


behaviour  of  English,  Irish  and  Scotch  troops  in  the  field. 
I  think  that  I  started  the  topic  by  asking  Lord  Roberts  if  he 
had  noticed  any  characteristic  differences  among  such  troops. 

He  said,  "  If  you  see  a  specially  brilliant  thing  done 
in  the  field,  you  will  find  that,  nine  times  out  of  ten, 
it  is  an  Irishman  who  has  done  it."  He  described  the 
English  as  being  steady  and  trustworthy  in  fight,  and 
especially  good  in  defence  ;  but  he  said,  "  Take  them  for 
all  in  all,  I  think  1  would  rather  command  Scotch  troops  : 
they  have  more  elan  than  the  English  and  more  steadiness 
than  the  Irish."  But  I  gathered  that,  if  it  was  needful  to 
defend  a  diflScult  position,  the  Englishman  would  make 
the  most  of  it. 

Parallel  to  this  view  of  race  qualities  may  be  placed 
the  following  opinion  given  by  one  who  knew  sailors  well. 
He  was  a  chaplain  who  had  ministered  in  some  Seaman's 
Mission,  and  knew  sailors  belonging  to  all  nationalities. 
He  said,  "  Taking  sailors  all  round,  one  is  as  good  as 
another :  the  Swedish,  the  Dutch,  the  French,  the  Irish, 
the  Scotch  sailor  is  as  good  as  the  English  ;  but  if  it  is 
a  dirty  night,  and  there  is  an  ugly  job  to  be  done  on  the 
topmast,  you  must  get  an  Englishman  to  do  it."  This  is 
a  view  resembling  that  of  Lord  Roberts  :  the  man  needed 
at  the  last  resort  is  the  Englishman. 

I  am  tempted  here  to  tell  another  tale  which  bears  a 
similar  moral.  I  was  dining  with  the  manager  of  The 
Times.  Among  the  guests  was  the  Rev.  John  Watson — 
better  known  as  Ian  MacLaren,  the  author  of  The  Bonnie 
Brier  Bush.  Mr.  Watson,  as  a  Scotchman,  was  eager 
to  know  how  young  Scotchmen  acquitted  themselves  in 


WAR  MEMORIES 


235 


journalism,  and  he  plied  our  host  with  questions.  At  last 
our  host  gave  the  following  general  opinion  on  the  quali- 
ties and  powers  of  English,  Irish,  and  Scotch  leader-writers. 
"  You  know,"  he  said,  "  that  our  leading  articles  are  not 
devised  by  the  men  who  write  them.  We  talk  to  our 
young  writers  and  tell  them  the  line  we  want  to  be  taken. 
If  the  writer  is  an  Irishman  he  requires  twenty  minutes' 
talk  before  he  writes  ;  if  he  is  a  Scotchman  he  will  need 
half  an  hour  ;  if  he  is  an  Englishman  he  will  need  an  hour." 

"  Well,  and  with  what  result  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Watson. 

"  Oh,  the  Irishman  writes  the  most  brilliant  article." 

*'  But  what  about  the  Scotchman  ? " 

'*  Well,"  said  our  host,  "  the  Scotchman  writes  a  good 
article,  but  he  is  apt  to  put  into  it  some  idea  of  his  own 
which  we  don't  want.  If,  however,"  he  added,  "  we  want 
an  article  which  requires  special  care,  because  some  very 
important  issues  hang  upon  the  tone  and  phrases  of  it,  we 
must  have  an  Englishman  to  do  it." 

All  these  three  anecdotes  lead  up  to  one  conclusion  : 
The  Englishman  is  the  emergency  man  of  the  world. 

Perhaps  it  is  not  making  too  long  a  leap  from  these 
stories  of  racial  qualities  to  record  here  a  judgment  given 
concerning  the  late  Prince  Consort  by  Lord  Palmerston. 
It  was  told  mc  by  Lord  Mount-Temple.  Of  the  Prince 
Consort,  Lord  Palmerston  said,  "  He  was  a  man  who  would 
have  come  to  the  front,  whatever  vocation  in  life  he  had 
adopted.  If  he  had  been  a  soldier,  he  would  have  become 
a  general.  If  he  had  been  a  lawyer,  he  would  have  been 
a  leader  of  circuit  and  a  judge."  This  opinion,  given  by 
one  who  had  good  opportunities  of  judging,  seems  to  me 


236       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


to  give  a  pathetic  interest  to  the  life  of  the  Prince  Consort. 
He  had  the  capacity  to  distinguish  himself  in  some  active 
career  :  with  the  capacity  th,ere  was,  no  doubt,  the  desire 
for  some  sphere  of  individual  self-expression  ;  but  the  con- 
ditions of  his  life  denied  him  such  outlet  for  his  energies. 
He  turned  to  the  only  things  that  were  open  to  him  : 
arts  and  letters  ;  and  yet,  when  he  sought  to  help  in  the 
organized  recognition  of  Art  in  English  life,  his  efforts  were 
misunderstood  and  misrepresented.  His  earnest  wishes 
to  help  were  treated  as  uncalled-for  interference.  When 
he  proposed  to  make  Kensington  a  great  centre  of  art 
treasures.  Punch  represented  him  as  almost  a  purloiner 
of  national  pictures.  Activity  checked,  and  the  natural 
energy  deprived  of  every  legitimate  outlet,  robbed  life  for 
him  of  much  of  its  savour.  We  are  not,  perhaps,  surprised 
to  find  him  saying,  when  speaking  of  the  King  of  Portugal's 
illness  (it  was  typhoid  fever),  "  If  the  Queen  had  been 
taken  ill  with  it  she  would  have  recovered,  for  she  wishes 
to  live  ;  but  if  I  had  been  attacked  1  should  have  died, 
for  I  have  no  wish  to  live."  I  remember  that  Queen 
Victoria  said  something  of  the  same  kind  to  me,  which 
confirmed  this  view  of  the  difference  in  temperament  and 
feeling  between  her  and  the  Prince  Consort.  I  have  met 
in  some  quarters  a  tendency  to  belittle  the  Prince  Consort. 
I  never  knew  him,  so  I  have  no  personal  experience  to 
draw  upon  ;  but  I  think  that  this  disparaging  tendency  is 
perhaps  due  to  the  fashion  which  treats  with  disdain  every- 
thing early  Victorian.  From  all  I  have  heard  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  that  this  disparagement  is  mistaken.  Those 
who  knew  and  met  the  Prince  Consort  frequently  formed 


WAR  MEMORIES 


237 


different  views.  I  can  recall  with  what  affectionate  admira- 
tion an  old  servant  at  Windsor  Castle  spoke  of  him.  This 
official  had  charge  of  the  royal  plate,  and  understood  and 
appreciated  the  artistic  value  of  it.  To  him  the  memory 
of  the  Prince  Consort  was  the  memory  of  one  who  pos- 
sessed the  knowledge  and  taste  of  an  expert  in  these  and 
all  other  works  of  art. 

The  theme  of  racial  characteristics  started  this  chapter. 
It  leads  me  to  recall  some  characteristic  memories.  I  have 
often  asked  men  what  was  their  earliest  recollection,  and  at 
what  age  did  their  conscious  memory,  as  it  were,  begin  .'' 
The  variety  of  answers  has  astonished  me.  The  most 
remarkable  discrepancy  in  age  which  I  met  with  in  my 
inquiries  was  that  between  the  early  recollections  of  Lord 
Goschen  and  Mr.  Henry  James.  I  found  myself  on  one 
occasion,  which  I  might  call  historic,  seated  between  these 
two  men  :  Lord  Goschen  on  my  left  and  Mr.  Henry  James 
on  my  right.  I  put  my  question  to  both  of  them.  Lord 
Goschen  replied,  "  The  first  thing  I  can  remember  was 
riding  my  little  pony  from  Charlton  to  Blackheath  to  begin 
my  time  at  Blackheath  Proprietary  School,  and  I  remember 
the  many  indecorous  questions  with  which  the  boys  at  the 
school  assailed  me  ;  but  so  little  do  I  remember  of  my  time 
there,  that,  though  I  remained  four  years  at  the  school,  I 
cannot  say  whether  I  was  happy  there  or  unhappy."  I 
then  turned  to  my  right-hand  neighbour  and  asked  the 
same  question.  1  received  a  more  astonishing  reply.  "  I 
remember,"  said  Mr.  Henry  James,  "  what  took  place 
before  I  was  twelve  months  old."  He  explained  his  reply 
as  follows  :  "  When  I  was  six  or  seven  years  of  age  my 


2  38        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


parents  took  me  to  Paris.  When  1  arrived  I  said  to  them, 
'  I  have  been  here  before.'  The  second  visit  revived  some 
memory  of  the  first  :  the  objects  seen  were  famihar." 

Naturally  this  was  only  the  evidence  that  the  buildings 
seen  by  the  child  a  few  months  old  had  impressed  them- 
selves on  the  retina  or  brain.  This  was  the  revival  of  an 
impression  rather  than  a  conscious  recollection  ;  but  it 
quite  harmonizes  with  the  story  told  by  Dr.  W.  B. 
Carpenter  in  his  Mental  Physiology  (pp.  430,  431). 

The  story  related  to  the  Rev.  Septimus  Hansard,  who 
was  for  some  years  rector  of  Bethnal  Green.  Mr.  Hansard 
visited  Hurstmonceux  Castle,  which  he  was  desirous  of 
seeing.  When  he  reached  the  ruin  he  found  it  to  be 
familiar  to  him.  He  searched  his  memory  and  he  could 
not  recall  any  visit  to  the  place.  He  wrote  to  his  mother, 
who  replied  that  when  he  was  about  twelve  months  old,  he 
had  been  taken  to  Hurstmonceux  and  left  outside  while 
his  father  and  mother  went  over  the  castle.  The  child 
outside  had  had  the  features  of  the  building  impressed 
upon  his  eye,  and  the  visit  paid  in  later  years  simply 
recalled  these  earliest  impressions.  These  seem  to  me  to 
be  the  raw  material  of  recollection. 


KING  EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH 


The  montli  of  May  1910  will  have  a  mournful  memory 
for  thousands.  In  the  closing  days  of  April,  King  Edward 
the  Seventh  returned  from  Biarritz.  The  people  were  con- 
tent to  believe  that  he  returned  invigorated  and  refreshed 
by  his  stay  abroad.  On  the  ist  of  May  he  was  at  Sandring- 
ham  inspecting  some  alterations  and  improvements  made 
in  his  much-loved  country  home.  That  day  week  the 
churches  were  draped  in  black  ;  the  gay  colours  of  May 
vanished  from  the  streets  ;  the  people  went  about  in 
mourning  dress  ;  voices  were  lowered ;  vehicles  were  driven 
slowly  and  softly  past  Buckingham  Palace,  where  the  Royal 
Standard,  which  for  a  week  had  floated  bravely,  was  half- 
mast  high.  On  Saturday,  the  7th  of  May,  it  was  known  in 
every  part  of  the  world  that  King  Edward  the  Seventh  was 
dead. 

The  news  was  received  with  profound  and  startled 
emotion.  The  loss  came  upon  the  majority  of  the  King's 
subjects  with  bewildering  suddenness  ;  for  though  he  as- 
cended the  throne  comparatively  late  in  life,  there  had 
been  no  sign  of  what  is  commonly  called  failing  health  :  the 
probabilities  pointed  to  a  longer  reign  than  the  nine  short 
years  which  had  passed  since  his  accession.  But  in  the 
midst  of  the  regular  activities  of  his  royal  office,  and  at  a 
time  when  all  eyes  looked  to  him  as  the  one  person  in 
239 


240       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


whose  hand  was  the  key  to  unlock  the  gate  of  pressing 
difficulties,  the  end  came,  and  the  subjects  of  the  empire 
were  plunged  in  deep  and  dismayed  grief.  They  were  left 
also  to  understand,  if  they  could,  the  full  significance  of  the 
loss  which  had  befallen  them. 

Their  first  thoughts  leaped  irresistibly  to  the  gracious 
lady  who,  the  first  day  she  set  foot  upon  our  shores,  had 
awakened  their  admiring  welcome,  and  who,  by  virtue  of 
her  charm  of  manner  and  simple  goodness,  had  won  their 
trust  and  their  love.  To  her  first  went  forth  the  people's 
sympathy  ;  and  their  prayers  and  their  solicitude  were  for 
the  widowed  Queen.  But  in  the  early  days  of  sorrow  any 
estimate  of  the  meaning  of  the  sad  event  was  impossible. 

After  the  first  shock  the  leading  minds  of  the  country — 
the  statesmen,  the  writers,  the  teachers — began  to  measure 
the  national  loss.  When  they  did  so,  and  when  they  en- 
deavoured to  express  the  loss  in  words,  the  general  harmony 
of  opinion  which  was  expressed  seems  to  attest  the  correct- 
ness of  the  conclusion  which  had  been  reached  by  so  many 
independent  minds.  What  was  said  was  accepted  as  true  : 
the  eulogiums  on  the  late  King  caused  much  emotion  but 
no  surprise.  And  this  fact  is  the  most  surprising  fact  of  all 
connected  with  the  King's  death  ;  for  the  mourning  and 
sympathetic  words  which  summed  up  the  value  of  the  reign 
described  the  late  King' s  influence  and  power  in  a  way 
which  would  have  seemed  extravagant  and  impossible  in 
1901. 

Ten  years  before,  while  Queen  Victoria  still  lived — or 
even  nine  years  before,  when  the  King  was  commencing  his 
reign — few  could  have  anticipated  the  high  reputation  and 


KING  EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH 


widespread  renown  which  these  days  of  mourning  proved 
King  Edward  to  have  won.  He  was  a  well-known  and 
popular  figure  in  England  and  throughout  Europe,  and,  as 
far  as  acquaintance  with  his  character  and  talents  went,  some 
forecast  of  his  reign  might  have  been  attempted  by  those 
who  had  watched  his  career  ;  but  not  the  most  courageous 
or  sanguine  of  his  friends  and  admirers  could  have  dreamed 
that  within  little  more  than  nine  years  his  death  would  evoke 
such  an  unbroken  flood  of  eulogy  and  such  widespread  testi- 
mony to  his  work  and  worth  as  a  king.  He  was  then,  as  he 
always  has  been,  a  popular  favourite — a  country  gentleman, 
alive  to  agricultural  interests  and  alert  to  accept  and  promote 
every  well-tested  method  of  improvement,  and  yet  not  a 
mere  farmer-prince,  a  keen  sportsman  and  a  travelled  man, 
whose  figure  was  familiar  in  the  health  and  pleasure  resorts 
of  Europe — and  who  possessed  in  a  high  degree  the  joie  de 
vivre  and  a  warm  wish  that  others  should  enjoy  life  also. 
It  is  true  that  in  the  later  years  of  his  venerable  mother's 
life  he  discharged  with  that  grace  and  bonhomie  which  were 
peculiarly  his  own  some  of  what  may  be  called  the  orna- 
mental functions  of  royalty  ;  but  none  of  these  duties  were 
adequate  tests  of  kingly  capacity.  Everyone  knew  when  he 
ascended  the  throne  that  the  new  sovereign  was  a  kindly 
man,  possessed  of  gracious  manners,  quick  perception,  and 
native  dignity  ;  but  few,  if  any,  would  have  ventured  to 
predict  that  his  reign  would  close  among  tributes  to  the 
wide  and  effective  influence  of  his  reign. 

Let  anyone  go  back  in  memory  ;  let  him  forget  for  a 
moment  the  record  of  that  reign  of  nine  years ;  and  then  let 
him  read  the  eulogiums  of  later  days,  and  he  will  realize  how 

R 


242       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


far  they  go  beyond  anything  that  could  have  been  imagined 
at  the  commencement  of  King  Edward's  reign.  Let  me 
take,  first,  the  public  utterances  of  our  responsible  leaders 
in  the  Houses  of  Parliament. 

Lord  Crewe  spoke  as  follows  :  "  We  look  back  at  these 
last  nine  years  with  thankfulness  and  pride.  I  think  we  all 
recognize  that  at  the  time  of  the  late  King's  accession  the 
task  before  his  Majesty  was  one  of  exceptional  difficulty. 
He  succeeded  at  a  comparatively  advanced  age  to  the  great 
Queen  who  had  become  in  her  lifetime  almost  a  legendary 
figure,  and  whose  person  seemed  to  be,  as  it  were,  part  of 
the  British  Constitution  itself.  Whatever  King  Edward's 
reign  might  be,  it  could  not  be  the  same  as  that  of  Queen 
Victoria  ;  and  now,  as  we  cast  our  thoughts  backwards,  we 
are  able  sincerely  to  declare  that,  though  different,  the  late 
reign  has  not  suffered  by  comparison.  The  prosperity,  the 
orderly  progress  of  the  nation,  the  strengthening  of  imperial 
ties,  and,  above  all,  the  maintenance  of  peace,  if  these  be  the 
signs  of  a  great  and  glorious  reign,  they  are  fulfilled  in  that 
of  which  we  are  now  lamenting  the  close.". 

Lord  Lansdowne  followed  :  "  The  nation,"  he  said,  "  is 
absolutely  unanimous  at  the  present  time.  We  know  at 
this  moment  no  distinction  of  party,  race,  or  religious  per- 
suasion. .  .  .  The  nation  has  lost  an  illustrious  head.  .  .  . 
His  Majesty  had  established  relations  with  the  chiefs  of 
other  states  and  with  the  public  men  of  other  states  which 
enabled  him  to  bear  unostentatiously,  and  strictly  within  the 
limits  of  the  Constitution,  a  distinguished  and  useful  part  in 
international  affairs  ;  and,  to  my  mind,  amongst  the  many 
remarkable  attributes  of  the  late  King,  none  was  more  re- 


KING  EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH 


markable  than  his  power  of  creating  what  I  can  only  describe 
as  an  atmosphere  of  international  goodwill  and  good  feeling 
— an  atmosphere  the  presence  of  which  diminished  asperities, 
if  asperities  were  there  ;  made  difficulties  easier  of  solution, 
if  there  were  difficulties  ;  and  contributed  immensely,  if  I 
may  use  the  words  of  the  Address,  to  the  consolidation  of 
peace  and  concord  throughout  the  world.  At  this  moment 
I  am  convinced  that  there  is  not  a  Chancellerie  in  Europe 
which  does  not  recognize  that  by  the  death  of  Edward  the 
Seventh  a  great  international  force  has  been  removed  from 
the  public  affairs  of  Europe — a  force  which  always  operated 
to  the  public  good,  and  which  I  think  all  are  justified  in 
believing  will  not  cease  entirely  to  operate  now  he  has 
left  us." 

Mr.  Asquith,  in  the  House  of  Commons,  said  :  "  In 
external  affairs  his  powerful  personal  influence  was  steadily 
and  zealously  directed  to  the  avoidance  not  only  of  war  but 
of  the  causes  and  pretexts  for  war.  He  well  earned  the  title 
by  which  he  will  always  be  remembered  :  the  Peacemaker  of 
the  world." 

Mr.  Balfour — after  pointing  out  that  ordinary  diplomacy 
is  no  part  of  the  monarch's  duty — said  :  "  We  must  not 
think  of  him  as  a  dexterous  diplomatist.  He  was  a  great 
monarch,  and  it  was  because  he  was  able  naturally,  simply 
through  the  Incommunicable  gift  of  personahty,  to  make  all 
feel — to  embody  to  all  men  —  the  friendly  policy  of  this 
country,  that  he  was  able  to  do  a  work  in  the  bringing 
together  of  nations  which  has  fallen  to  the  lot  of  few  men, 
be  they  king  or  be  they  subject,  to  accomplish." 

Lord  Rosebery,  a  few  days  later,  in  London,  spoke  no 


244       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


less  emphatically  :  "  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  our  late 
King — I  say  it  in  my  heart  and  conscience — in  view  of  the 
character  and  the  weight  that  he  had  established  in  the 
councils  of  the  world,  in  view  of  the  efForts  he  was  con- 
stantly making  for  the  promotion  of  peace,  in  view  of  the 
sympathy  by  which  he  was  enabled  to  knit  together  nations 
other  than  his  own,  was  at  the  time  of  his  death  one  of  the 
greatest  agencies  for  good  existing  in  the  world." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  give  even  a  summary  of  the 
public  eulogies  of  great  personal  authorities — all  of  which 
were  cast  in  the  same  strain  of  honest  and  genuine  admira- 
tion of  the  late  King's  personal  force  and  influence — but 
two  utterances  which  come  from  more  private  sources  will 
be  of  interest.  In  Egypt  the  foreign  element  spoke  of  the 
King  as  the  chief  of  European  sovereigns,  and  a  responsible 
French  official  declared  that  the  death  of  the  King  would  be 
worse  than  the  death  of  the  President.  Perhaps  the  most 
felicitous  eulogy  came  from  the  German  Emperor,  who 
telegraphed  these  words  :  "  King  Edward  represented  the 
incarnation  of  the  fine  qualities  of  his  country.  Britain,  in 
mourning  him,  mourns  herself." 

These  words  of  warm  appreciation  are  not  the  words  of 
careless  rhetoric.  They  have  been  uttered  or  written  by 
statesmen  of  tried  position — possessed  of  wide  experience 
of  men  and  affairs  ;  they  have  been  uttered  for  the  most 
part  in  the  hearing  of  those  who  carefully  watch  every 
phrase,  who  are  ready  to  consider  and  criticize  the  words 
selected,  weighing  whether  they  are  adequate,  and  who 
would  resent  empty  panegyric  as  strongly  as  they  would 
unkindly  depreciation.    And  it  is  interesting  to  note  what 


KING  EDWAR     THE  SEVENTH  245 


we  call  the  common  denommator  in  which  all  agree.  We 
may  remove  from  our  thoughts  the  obvious  and  surface 
features  of  their  appreciation.  The  late  King  loved  sport, 
and  the  English  people  love  it  too  ;  he  took  pleasure  in  the 
recreations  of  his  people  ;  he  felt  also  for  their  sorrows,  and 
he  desired  to  see  the  sufferings  of  his  people  alleviated  by 
all  that  human  skill  could  devise  and  achieve.  To  this  his 
practical  interest  in  hospitals  and  the  establishment  of  the 
fund  which  bears  his  name  amply  testify.  He  possessed 
a  ready  kindliness  :  a  thousand  stories  of  the  late  King's 
quick  thoughtfulness  were  told  throughout  the  country. 
One  which  is  typical  of  his  prompt  sympathy  may  be  cited. 
At  a  great  public  function  in  a  large  provincial  city  a  lady 
was  present  whom  the  King  had  met,  perhaps,  half-a-dozen 
times  before.  His  quick  eye  noted  her  in  the  crowd  ;  he 
immediately  stepped  forward,  and  showed  how  exact  and 
kind  his  remembrance  of  her  was  by  expressing  with  genuine 
solicitude  the  hope  that  her  health  was  now  re-established. 
But  these,  pleasing  features  as  they  are,  were  not  those  to 
which  the  greatest  weight  was  attached.  The  loss  recog- 
nized by  all  was  the  loss  of  one  whose  influence  was  a 
steadying  factor  in  great  matters.  This  was  the  common 
denominator  of  their  appreciation.  He  was  one  whose  place 
and  personality  made  him  a  force  on  the  side  of  national 
stability — a  force  valuable  at  all  times,  but  more  than  ever 
valuable  in  times  of  national  anxiety. 

This  is  the  great  feature  upon  which  the  wise  men  of 
our  day  have  been  led  to  dwell. 

The  Zendavesta  speaks  of  a  kingly  glory  made  by 
Mazda — a  glory  that  cannot  be  forcibly  seized.    There  is 


246       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


such  a  glory,  which  shows  itself  in  unasserted  but  real 
strength  ;  it  is  a  glory  of  character  which  cannot  be  gained 
by  force — either  physical  or  intellectual  :  it  can  only  be  won 
by  habitual  rectitude  in  one's  calling — by  virtue  of  that 
simple-minded  and  loyal  devotion  to  the  life-task  which  is 
given  to  each  of  us.  The  value  of  this  glory  and  strength 
is  plainly  told  in  the  English  history  of  the  last  eighty  or 
ninety  years.  The  predecessors  of  Queen  Victoria  had  not 
done  much  to  endear  the  Throne  to  the  people  :  they  lacked 
the  kingly  glory  which  is  above  force.  It  was  reserved  for  a 
woman  into  whose  girlish  hands  the  sceptre  was  given  to  win 
by  her  blameless  life,  by  her  tender  and  ready  sympathy,  by 
her  genuine  and  unselfish  industry  in  national  affairs,  the 
affectionate  loyalty  and  reverent  attachment  of  the  people. 

When  King  Edward  ascended  the  throne  at  an  age  when 
all  that  needed  to  be  learned  must  have  been  learned  before- 
hand, men  hoped  more  than  they  expected  from  his  reign. 
But  soon,  to  the  qualities  which  all  knew  that  he  possessed 
other  powers  were  displayed,  and  the  nation  recognized  that 
the  sceptre  was  in  the  hands  of  a  prince  possessed  not  only 
of  attractive  but  of  right  kingly  attributes.  His  rare  saga- 
city, his  unerring  tact,  his  happy,  alluring  grace  of  manner 
were  enough  to  transform  foes  into  friends,  and  lukewarm 
friends  into  staunch  champions  ;  but  beyond  all  these  there 
was  in  him  that  kingly  rectitude  of  spirit,  which  never  de- 
scended to  intrigue,  never  sought,  as  other  monarchs  have 
been  tempted  to  do,  to  create  a  king's  party  ;  in  short,  he 
knew  that  he  was  a  constitutional  sovereign,  and  he  unflinch- 
ingly accepted  those  limitations  which  often  meant  the  lonely 
endurance  of  much  anxious  responsibility  ;  and  in  spite  of 


KING  EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH 


conditions  which  must  have  made  him  crave  for  sympathetic 
conference  with  old  and  trusted  friends,  he  went  through  his 
task  with  heroic  silence  and  remained  chivalrously  loyal  to  his 
constitutional  advisers.  It  is  not  given  to  very  many  to 
know  when  and  how  to  speak  ;  it  is  given  to  fewer  to  know 
when  to  be  silent  ;  it  is  given  to  fewer  still  to  keep  silence, 
even  when  silence  is  best.  But  King  Edward  the  Seventh 
was  able  to  do  this  with  such  constancy  and  consistency  that 
it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  he  was  himself  a  martyr  to 
his  own  ideal  of  constitutional  duty.  In  this  he  showed 
that  quality  which,  as  Tennyson  sang,  marked  the  Prince 
Consort's  character — "sublime  repression  of  himself."  Thus 
he  could  keep  silence,  but  wherein  he  could  rightly  express 
himself  he  was  happy  in  his  utterance  :  when  the  needs  of 
others  was  the  theme  he  could  plead  warmly  and  bravely 
on  their  behalf.  In  all  good  causes  he  sought,  and  success- 
fully sought,  to  enlist  the  sympathy  and  co-operation  of 
others.  In  this  the  recognized  loyalty  of  his  nature  increased 
the  range  of  his  influence  ;  and  when  the  cause  for  which 
he  worked  was  the  amity  of  nations  he  was  able,  without 
transgressing  the  code  of  diplomatic  etiquette,  to  promote 
that  spirit  of  personal  friendliness  which  of  itself  works 
against  international  friction.  He  knew  personally  the 
leading  men  of  other  lands,  and  he  was  able,  as  Lord 
Lansdowne  said,  to  create  that  "  atmosphere  "  which  was 
favourable  to  the  growth  and  development  of  friendly 
international  relationships. 

When  we  ask  what  was  the  secret  which  made  the  late 
King  such  a  strong  national  and  international  power,  the 
answer  is  to  be  found  not  in  the  record  of  definite  actions 


248        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


or  conspicuous  achievements,  but  in  the  unconsciously  exer- 
cised power  of  his  personality.  This  was  the  power  which 
created  the  atmosphere  of  which  I  have  spoken.  It  was 
the  effluence  of  a  characteristic  personality — genuine,  loyal, 
single-minded — which  made  his  influence  strong.  His 
power  was  not  due  to  deliberate  effort,  but  for  that  reason 
it  was  more  effective  than  any  conscious  exercise  of  force. 
For,  as  love  is  stronger  than  logic,  because  it  is  the  output 
of  the  whole  personality,  so  is  that  influence  which  springs 
from  what  is  the  essential  being,  more  powerful  and  more 
abiding  than  the  mere  intellectual  forces,  however  brilliant 
and  attractive  they  may  be. 

The  powers  and  gifts  of  the  late  King  were  in  a  great 
measure  hidden.  As  clear  water  conceals  its  depth,  so  his 
attractive  manner  and  unmistakable  kindliness  concealed 
much  of  the  real  force  which  lay  behind.  Here  I  may  be 
forgiven  for  speaking  of  two  scenes  indelibly  fixed  upon  my 
memory.  I  saw  him  first  nearly  sixty  years  ago  in  Liverpool. 
It  was  a  day  of  cloud  and  continual  rain  :  as  we  waited  for 
the  royal  procession,  the  crimson  carpet  which  stretched 
along  the  pier-side  and  down  the  bridge  to  the  landing-stage 
was  drenched  and  robbed  of  colour  :  once,  if  not  twice,  fresh 
strips  of  carpet  were  laid  down.  At  length  we  saw  the 
royal  visitors  :  the  Queen  and  Prince  Albert  passed,  but 
my  clearest  recollection  is  of  the  fair  boy,  about  my  own 
age,  whose  sunny  hair  made  a  brightness  upon  the  grey 
scene,  as  he  lifted  his  cap  in  answer  to  the  salutations  of  the 
crowd.  Even  then,  boy  as  I  was,  I  noticed  the  native  and 
unaffected  grace  with  which  he  bore  himself.  The  last  time 
I  saw  him,  he  lay  with  folded  hands,  calm  and  still  upon  his 


KING  EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH  249 


narrow  bed.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that  I  was  looking  upon 
the  one  whose  bright,  boyish  and  untired  face  I  had  seen 
more  than  half  a  century  earlier  ;  for  in  the  hour  of  death's 
carving,  something  unrecognized  before  comes  out,  and  the 
quiet  face  and  noble  head  I  looked  upon  showed  marks  and 
features  of  force  and  power  which  in  life  were  sweetly  veiled 
by  the  brightness  of  his  smile  and  the  charm  of  his  manner. 

The  final  lesson  of  the  King's  reign  is  the  simple  and 
continuous  lesson.  We  are  tempted,  in  estimating  life,  to 
attach  wrong  values  to  things  ;  we  rate  our  powers  of  mind 
too  highly  ;  we  adorn  with  fictitious  importance  our  theories; 
we  cling  superstitiously  to  the  narrow  range  of  prejudices 
which  we  call  our  opinions  ;  meanwhile,  we  forget  that  the 
total  man  is  more  than  his  views  :  the  aura  of  his  influence 
widens  and  shrinks  not  by  what  he  thinks  and  says,  but  by 
what  he  is  :  the  outflow  of  his  personality  spreads  further 
than  his  v/ords  and  flows  into  other  hearts  with  penetrating 
power. 

The  survey  which  I  have  thus  briefly  made  is,  from  the 
nature  of  the  case,  incomplete,  but  it  includes,  I  venture  to 
think,  the  essential  factors  of  that  great  problem  which  is 
continuously  before  us  in  the  history  of  nations.  The 
problem  is  that  of  national  longevity.  Does  a  nation,  as 
Herder  taught,  follow  like  a  plant  the  regular  law  of  birth, 
growth  and  decline  Are  the  virtues  and  vices  which  it 
displays  merely  matters  of  mechanical  condition  ?  What 
place  has  reason  and  freedom  in  their  destiny  ?  To  those 
who  accept  the  mechanical  theory  of  national  life — whether 
in  the  optimistic  form  set  forth  by  Herder  or  in  the  pes- 
simistic form  of  M,  Taine — vice  and  virtue  in  a  nation's 


2  so       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


history  are  mere  products,  like  vitriol  or  sugar.  But  to 
those  who  discriminate  between  the  character  of  the  laws 
which  prevail  in  the  physical  realm  and  those  which 
prevail  in  the  realms  of  thought  and  moral  feeling,  vice 
and  virtue  are  related  to  human  will  and  human  reason 
and  cannot  be  classed  as  subject  to  identically  the  same  laws 
which  rule  the  physical  world.  The  confusion  of  thought 
which  proclaimed  the  existence  of  natural  law  in  the  spiritual 
world  has  wrought  a  great  deal  of  unintentional  harm.  The 
reign  of  law  may  be,  and  probably  is,  complete  ;  but  it  is  as 
needful  to  ascertain  the  laws  of  the  moral  and  spiritual  world 
as  it  is  to  discover  those  in  the  material  world.  And  it  is  a 
mere  indolent  assumption  to  suppose  that  the  laws  of  the 
world  spiritual  are  identical  with  those  that  prevail  in  the 
physical  realm.  It  is  absurd  to  read  human  history  or  nationa^ 
history  as  though  it  were  governed  by  merely  physical  agents  ; 
blind  forces  forming  organizations — which  we  call  nations  or 
men — in  precisely  the  same  fashion  as  a  chemical  body  is 
formed  of  a  combination  of  simple  elements.  The  true 
reading  of  human  history  is  the  understanding  of  the  ideas 
and  personalities  which  have  mingled  in  its  making.  Great 
ideas  have  animated  a  family  or  a  tribe  :  they  have  found 
expression  in  one  or  more  great  personalities,  and  the  tribe 
has  grown  into  a  nation.  The  great  idea  of  a  protecting  and 
governing  God,  of  the  possibility  of  a  splendid  future,  en- 
forced by  the  example,  the  eloquence,  and  the  commanding 
personality  of  a  great  leader  like  Moses,  laid  the  foundations 
of  Israel's  glory.  Parallels  can  be  found  in  the  stories  of 
other  peoples.  Humanity,  broken  up  into  families  which 
become  nations,  learns  to  follow  some  great  idea — as  Israel 


KING  EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH 


followed  the  Shekinah  which  led  to  the  land  of  promise,  in 
doing  so  humanity  enters  upon  its  splendid  struggle  against 
the  tyranny  of  mere  material  forces.  Follow  the  migration 
of  the  human  race  from  the  East  to  the  West,  note  its 
long  journey  from  Asia  to  Europe,  from  India  to  France, 
and  at  each  stage  you  will  see  lessened  the  fatal  power  of 
nature  :  the  influences  of  race  and  climate  become  less  des- 
potic. Humanity,  once  overwhelmed,  paralyzed,  enervated 
before  the  tremendous  forces  of  nature,  slowly  emancipates 
itself.  Fatalistic  conceptions  become  rarer.  Nature  is  better 
understood.  Man  becomes  aware  of  his  power  :  he  realizes 
that  nature  is  his  keeper,  not  his  tyrant  ;  his  ideas  widen 
with  growing  knowledge  and  with  the  happy  confidence 
which  strengthens  as  his  knowledge  of  the  world  he  inhabits 
increases.  The  realization  of  great  ideas  is  possible  if  men 
wiU  put  their  lives  at  the  service  of  such  ideas  ;  but  the 
devotion  of  the  life  is  the  essential  condition  of  victory. 
Man  accepts  the  condition  :  the  hero  and  the  martyr  be- 
come figures  in  history  :  they  are  recognized  as  the  men  of 
light  and  leading,  the  true  benefactors  of  the  race — 

"  Figlio  del  sangue  e  vero." 

And  among  such  benefactors  we  may  rightly  place  King 
Edward  VII — a  great  English  king  among  kings,  some 
of  whom  were  great  indeed.  "  We  have  lost  a  great  king, 
one  of  the  greatest  in  history."  This  sentence  from  an 
admirable  leader  in  T^he  Times  may  seem  precipitate  in 
judgment,  but  there  is  a  sense  in  which  even  to-day  we 
may  recognize  its  truth.  Greatness  is  not  of  one  kind 
alone.    The  greatness  of  conspicuous  action  is  not  open 


252        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


to  all ;  but  there  is  a  greatness  which,  if  not  dazzling,  is 
of  abiding  value.  There  is  a  greatness  which  recognizes 
clearly  the  limitations  which  bound  its  activity,  which  dis- 
cerns what  may  be  done  within  the  limits  assigned  by 
Providence.  In  the  final  verdict  upon  men  and  their  lives, 
the  judgment  will  not  be  according  to  the  public  splendour 
of  their  deeds,  but  according  to  the  use  they  have  made  of 
their  gifts  within  the  limit  of  their  legitimate  opportunities. 
In  other  words,  it  is  the  character  inspiring  and  directing 
our  activities  which  gives  them  their  true  value. 

I  had  often  met  King  Edward  at  Windsor  or  at  Osborne 
when  he  was  Prince  of  Wales,  and  he  had  invited  me  to 
preach  at  Sandringham  from  time  to  time.  I  remember 
that  at  my  first  visit  I  was  anxious  on  the  Sunday  morning 
to  be  at  church  in  good  time.  I  watched  the  clock,  and 
when  it  left  me,  as  I  believed,  about  twenty  minutes  before 
service,  I  started  for  the  church.  I  had  hardly  set  foot 
upon  the  threshold,  when  I  heard  a  voice  calling  after  me, 
"  Bishop  !  Bishop  !  "  I  turned,  and  found  that  the  Prince 
of  Wales  was  summoning  me.  "  You  are  going  too  soon," 
he  said  ;  "  there  is  nearly  an  hour  before  service."  Then 
my  mistake  became  clear  :  I  had  forgotten  the  trick  of 
the  Sandringham  clocks,  which  were  kept  half  an  hour  in 
advance  of  the  real  time.  Theoretically  it  was  very  easy 
to  readjust  one's  ideas  about  time  or  to  reset  one's  watch, 
but  practically  one  found  that  one  was  the  victim  of  a 
haunting  doubt  whether  the  clock  or  watch  one  looked 
at  represented  Greenwich  or  Sandringham  time. 

This,  however,  was  a  trifling  matter,  and  one  more  for 
self-amusement  than  vexation.    The  time  at  Sandringham 


KING  EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH  253 


was  always  most  enjoyable.  There  was  a  freedom  which 
sprang  from  the  genial  kindliness  of  the  King  and  from 
the  sweet  graciousness  of  the  Queen.  The  household 
officers  and  those  in  waiting  were  all  filled  with  the  same 
gracious  and  kindly  spirit  which  the  royal  hosts  possessed. 

At  Sandringham,  too,  one  met  interesting  people.  I 
can  recall  very  vividly  my  meeting  there  with  Cecil  Rhodes. 
It  was  dark  when  I  reached  Sandringham.  At  the  station 
one  of  the  gentlemen-in-waiting  said  to  me,  "The  King 
wishes  you  to  drive  up  with  him."  I  entered  the  carriage  ; 
it  was  too  dark  to  discern  any  one.  The  King,  however, 
motioned  me  to  sit  beside  him,  and,  as  we  started,  he  intro- 
duced me  to  a  figure  on  the  opposite  seat.  I  just  caught 
the  name,  Mr.  Rhodes,  but  I  felt  uncertain  whether  I  had 
caught  it  correctly.  However,  on  reaching  the  house  I  dis- 
covered that  my  fellow-guest  was  the  great  empire  builder. 

The  next  day,  Sunday,  I  preached  at  Sandringham 
Church.  The  collections  at  the  morning  service  were 
given  to  the  Gordon  Boys'  Home,  in  which  King  Edward 
took  a  keen  interest.  This  interest  may  be  judged  by  the 
fact  that  on  the  corresponding  Sunday  in  the  previous  year 
I  had  been  given  the  duty  of  commending  this  charity  to 
the  generosity  of  the  guests  at  Sandringham.  The  last 
time  I  preached  at  Sandringham — five  months  before  the 
King's  death — the  collection  was  given  to  the  same  object. 
On  this  Sunday  Mr.  Rhodes  did  a  characteristic  thing. 
Walking  with  Sir  George  Higginson,  he  asked,  "  How 
much  would  it  require  to  pay  for  the  keep  of  one  lad 
always  at  the  home  " — in  other  words,  what  sum  of  money 
would  yield  an  income  to  endow  for  ever  one  lad's  main- 


254       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 

tenance.  A  sum  of  something  over  ;^400  was  mentioned. 
Mr.  Rhodes  gave  his  cheque  for  the  amount,  and  remarked 
that  he  disliked  piecemeal  or  unfinished  work  :  he  liked  to 
do  things  with  completeness. 

In  the  evening  Mr.  Rhodes  came  and  sat  down  beside 
me.  He  said,  "  Bishop,  how  is  it  that  ideas  come  into 
one's  head — great  thoughts  which  drop  unexpectedly  Into 
one's  mind — the  origin  and  suggestion  of  which  one  cannot 
trace  .'' "  1  reflected  a  moment  and  I  said,  "  I  think  that 
when  great  and  noble  ideas  come  to  us  they  are  the  gift 
and  suggestion  of  the  divine  spirit :  they  are  God's  mes- 
sage." He  answered  with  a  reverent  voice,  "  I  don't  think 
I  could  claim  that."  And  then  in  a  whimsical  way,  he 
added,  "  I  call  them  microbes  of  the  brain." 

As  I  recall  those  pleasant  Sundays  at  Sandringham,  one 
or  two  interesting  recollections  spring  to  my  mind.  I 
recall  one  Sunday  evening  in  which  I  sat  near  the  King 
while  the  band  played.  Some  piece  of  Verdi's  started  a 
memory  in  the  King's  mind,  and  he  told  me  that  when  he 
was  young  he  paid  a  visit  to  Italy,  and  at  that  time  Verdi's 
name  roused  the  greatest  enthusiasm  among  the  Italian 
people.  It  was  not,  however,  merely  because  he  was  a 
popular  composer,  but  because  the  letters  of  his  name  stood 
for  the  national  hopes  of  the  people.  Wherever  the  name 
was  written  the  prophecy  of  Italy  united  under  the  rule  of 
the  Re  Galant'uomo  was  read  :  Verdi  stood  for  Vittorio 
Emanuele  Re  d'ltalia. 

The  last  time  I  had  the  privilege  of  speaking  to  the 
King  was  on  May  3,  19 10.  The  King  had  fixed  noon 
that  day  for  the  homage  of  a  newly  appointed  bishop.  I 


KING  EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH  255 


was  in  attendance  as  Clerk  of  the  Closet,  The  King 
went  through  the  little  ceremony  with  his  usual  grace  and 
cordiality,  but  I  felt  that  it  needed  more  effort  on  his  part 
than  usual.  He  was  pale  and  looked  fagged  ;  but  his 
kindliness  did  not  desert  him.  When  the  formal  function 
was  over,  the  Bishop  rose  from  his  knees  and  the  King 
addressed  him  with  a  few  sympathetic  words.  "  You  have 
a  large  diocese,"  he  said  to  the  bishop,  "  and  a  great  many 
parishes  in  it,"  and  then,  with  a  half-humorous  air,  he 
said,  "  and  some  of  them  are  not  as  good  as  they  ought 
to  be,"  and  he  looked  at  me  as  he  added,  "we  know  that, 
don't  we  ? "  I  admitted  the  truth.  Then  the  King  said 
to  the  newly  made  bishop  :  "  They  will  need  a  firm  hand." 
This  closed  the  interview.  We  bowed  ourselves  out.  It 
was  the  last  time  I  saw  him  alive.  It  was  a  Tuesday.  On 
the  Friday  night  he  passed  away. 

On  the  Monday  Queen  Alexandra  sent  for  me.  Soon 
after  noon  I  was  at  the  palace  ;  after  a  little  delay  I  was 
taken  to  the  Queen's  room.  The  Queen  came  in,  she  drew 
me  to  the  sofa,  and  we  sat  down.  She  said  that  she  felt 
like  stone.  I  could  only  say  that  it  was  perhaps  merciful 
that  we  could  not  realize  the  full  meaning  of  such  a  loss 
at  the  first.  On  her  return  from  Greece,  when  she  passed 
through  Venice,  she  told  me  how  a  strong  impulse,  as  though 
a  premonition  of  coming  danger,  had  led  her  to  shorten 
her  stay  abroad  and  to  hurry  home.  "  Stay  if  you  will," 
she  had  said  to  her  travelling  companions,  '*  I  must  be  with 
my  husband."  She  told  how,  when  she  arrived,  the  King 
had  stood  up  and  walked  to  meet  her,  how,  forgetful  of 
himself,  ill  as  he  was,  he  had  asked  her  about  everything 


256        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


and  wanted  to  hear  her  news.  She  told  how  restlessness 
took  hold  of  him  as  the  end  drew  near  :  even  when  sadly 
weakened  he  tried  to  walk  into  the  next  room,  how  at 
the  last  she  stood  near  him  with  his  head  resting  on 
her  shoulder — how  the  end  came  after  an  interval  of 
unconsciousness. 

Then  she  said,  "  You  would  like  to  see  him."  She 
led  me  through  two  or  three  rooms  till  we  came  into  the 
King's  own  bedroom.  An  oblong  room  with  windows  on 
the  left  as  we  entered  ;  the  greater  part  of  the  room  was 
free  of  furniture  :  at  the  far  end  on  the  right  was  a  folding 
screen.  The  Queen  passed  behind  it ;  I  followed :  near  the 
wall,  parallel  to  the  windows,  was  a  small  single  bed,  covered 
with  a  simple  white  counterpane  ;  and  there,  lying  with  his 
hands  just  touching  one  another  across  his  breast,  lay  the 
dead  king.  The  face  was  pale  ;  the  expression  calm  and 
placid  ;  he  might  have  been  asleep. 

I  went  forward  and  fell  on  my  knees  beside  him  and 
kissed  the  cold  right  hand  which  was  near  me,  and  for  a 
few  moments  I  prayed.  I  rose  and  looked  at  the  Queen. 
I  could  say  nothing.  I  kissed  her  hand  :  the  tears  were 
in  both  our  eyes  :  my  voice  refused  utterance.  At  last  I 
stammered  out  some  commonplace  remark  that  he  looked 
peaceful,  and  that  such  a  peaceful  expression  would  leave 
a  happy  memory  with  her.  She  spoke  about  prayer, 
wondering  whether  prayers  at  the  bedside  of  the  uncon- 
scious could  do  much  good.  I  said,  "  It  can  never  be 
a  mistake  to  tell  God  what  we  need  and  what  we  feel.  All 
times  are  good  for  prayer."  Then  I  added,  "  Shall  we 
pray  now   "    We  knelt  by  the  bedside.    I  prayed,  saying 


KING  EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH  257 


what  came  uppermost  from  my  heart.  We  rose,  the  tears 
were  in  her  eyes.  I  said,  "  Shall  I  leave  you  here  ? " 
She  said,  "  Yes,"  and  I  left  her  with  her  dead. 

It  seemed  but  a  day  since  I  had  been  with  her  at 
Osborne,  when  she  wept  as  the  sense  of  the  responsibility 
of  sovereignty  came  over  her.  Further  back  my  thoughts 
went  to  the  day  in  March,  forty-eight  years  before,  when 
as  an  undergraduate  I  had  witnessed  the  rejoicings  and 
the  fireworks  on  Parker's  Piece  in  Cambridge  and  was 
nearly  crushed  to  death  by  the  crowd  which  had  gathered 
to  do  honour  to  the  Prince  of  Wales'  wedding  day. 

The  King  is  dead  :  Long  live  the  King  !  So  go  the 
old  words  of  national  faith  and  hope.  From  the  past 
we  look  to  the  future.  The  King  died  at  a  moment  of 
national  anxiety.  There  were  moments  in  which  our 
fears  of  national  feud  were  great,  but  outward  events 
have  driven  away  the  clouds.  External  peril  has  united 
the  hearts  of  all. 

When  King  Edward  died  I  ventured  to  say  that  such 
an  event  called  for  national  searching  of  heart — now  1  can 
reiterate  the  thought  with  greater  emphasis. 

Professor  Sir  Charles  Waldstein,  in  one  of  his  addresses, 

told  the  story  of  a  great  foreign  statesman  who,  after 

a  discussion  on  international  affairs,  sadly  said  :  "  I  have 

been   sometimes   tempted   to   ask   myself   whether  the 

prosperity  or  continued  existence  of  my  own  nation  is 

really  needful  or  useful  to  the  world."    Whatever  answer 

independent  thinkers  in  different  lands  may  give  to  such 

a  question,  one  thing  is  sure — the  nation  or  people  which 

is  not  wanted  in  the  world  will  perish  out  of  it.  The 
s 


258        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


conditions  of  national  existence  and  true  national  prosperity 
are  simple  and  clear.  The  peoples  of  weak  character — 
deficient  in  moral  force,  destitute  of  self-reliance,  disdainful 
of  truth,  lacking  the  instincts  of  freedom,  and  justice — quickly 
fall  under  the  domination  of  stronger  peoples.  In  estimating 
the  secret  of  Anglo-Saxon  power,  M.  Demolins  placed  it 
in  the  self-reliance  in  which  British  lads  were  trained.  In 
estimating  the  source  of  the  strength  of  Ancient  Rome, 
another  French  writer  found  it  in  manliness  and  reverence. 
Byron  struck  the  same  note  when  he  wrote  of  Rome — 

"  'Twas  self-abasement  led  the  way 
To  villain  bonds  and  despots'  sway." 

The  old  Hebrew  taught  the  same  truth  when  he  said  : 
"  Righteousness  exalteth  a  nation."  Here,  then,  at  this 
trying  and  terrible  moment  of  our  history,  may  we  not  well 
pause  and  take  stock  of  our  national  inheritance  .''  If  in 
this  great  national  crisis  all  party  lines  vanish,  if  all 
can  stand,  as  Lord  Lansdowne  said,  shoulder  to  shoulder 
in  this  common  distress,  can  we  not  stand  together  also  in 
the  determination  that  henceforth  we  will  sanction  no 
laws,  tolerate  no  fashions,  which  tend  to  the  weakening  or 
demoralization  of  national  character  If  health  depends 
upon  the  quality  of  the  blood,  national  health  and  vigour 
depend  upon  the  moral  sympathies  and  ideals  which  are 
accepted  by  a  people  and  incorporated  into  their  thoughts 
and  activities.  And  as  it  is  easy  to  undermine  health  by 
adopting  a  diet  which  impoverishes  or  pollutes  the  blood, 
so  is  it  easy  also,  through  lowered  ideals,  lowered  manners 
and  customs,  to  spread  weakness,  and  with  it,  perchance, 
seeds  of  decay  throughout  national  life.    Love  of  sport  is 


KING  EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH  259 


good  ;  but  it  is  evil  when  sport  falls  into  professional  hands 
and  the  public  interest  is  less  in  the  achievements  of  the 
field  than  in  the  opportunity  of  some  gambling  gain. 
Pleasure  is  natural  and  good  :  "  all  work  and  no  play "  is 
proverbially  bad  for  men  as  well  as  boys  ;  but  a  dislike 
of  work,  with  a  feverish  love  of  pleasure,  soon  works  disas- 
ter :  play  ceases  to  be  pleasure,  and  discontent  follows,  and 
meanwhile  the  capacity  for  effective  and  successful  work 
is  destroyed.  Philanthropists  have  often  striven  to  secure 
for  downtrodden  races  their  rights,  but  it  is  a  sign  of 
national  decline  when  men  clamour  for  their  rights  and 
speak  lightly  or  seldom  of  their  duties. 

To  be  elected  for  a  constituency  and  to  be  privileged 
therefore  to  write  "  M.P."  after  his  name  may  attest, 
and  probably  does  attest,  a  man's  personal  capacity — some 
energy  of  will  and  some  measure  of  judgment  ;  but  it 
does  not  always  carry  with  it  the  pledge  of  undeviating 
rectitude  and  singleness  of  purpose.  It  has  been  allied 
with  flexibility  of  principle  and  flabbiness  of  character. 
Parliamentary  government  will  suffer,  and  suffer  justly,  in 
public  esteem  should  the  House  of  Commons  degenerate 
into  an  assembly  of  men  gathered  together  to  register  the 
wishes  or  will  of  that  section  of  their  constituents  which 
has  secured  their  return.  "  If  government  were  a  matter 
of  will  upon  any  side,"  said  Mr.  Burke  to  the  electors  of 
Bristol,  "  yours,  without  question,  ought  to  be  superior. 
But  government  and  legislation  are  matters  of  reason  and 
judgment,  and  not  of  inclination  ;  and  what  sort  of  reason 
is  that  in  which  one  set  of  men  deliberate  and  another 
decide,  and  where  those  who  form  the  conclusion  are 


26o       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


perhaps  three  hundred  miles  distant  from  those  who  hear 
the  argument  ?  To  deliver  an  opinion  is  the  right  of  all 
men  :  that  of  constituents  is  a  weighty  and  respectable 
opinion,  which  a  representative  ought  always  most  seriously 
to  consider.  But  authoritative  instructions — mandates  issued, 
which  the  member  is  bound  blindly  and  implicitly  to  obey, 
to  vote  and  to  argue  for,  though  contrary  to  the  clearest 
conviction  of  his  judgment  and  conscience — these  are  things 
utterly  unknown  to  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  which  arise 
from  a  fundamental  mistake  of  the  whole  order  and  tenour 
of  our  constitution."  ^  It  follows  from  this  that  to  sur- 
render his  conviction  of  what  is  really  right  and  good  for 
the  country  to  the  demands  of  party  is,  on  the  part  of 
a  member  of  Parliament,  a  betrayal  of  trust.  1  shall  never 
forget  the  shock  I  once  received  when  a  member  of 
Parliament  waited  upon  me  one  Sunday  afternoon  and 
requested  me  to  sign  a  petition  praying  the  House  of 
Lords  to  reject  a  certain  measure  for  which  he  himself 
had  voted  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Men  who  act  in 
this  fashion  are  lowering  the  standard  of  public  morality, 
and  promoting  so  far  the  slow  decline  of  national  character 
and  national  vigour. 

The  death  of  King  Edward  was  a  national  loss  :  it 
stirred  our  emotions.  Since  then  has  come  the  war,  and 
another  set  of  emotions  has  been  stirred  ;  the  value  of  such 
feelings  of  loyal  sorrow  and  ardent  patriotism  will  only  be 
secured  if  sentiment  is  translated  into  action,  and  if  the 
nation  which  has  experienced  a  common  peril  and  common 

1  Burke — Speech  at  the  conclusion  of  the  poll  at  Bristol,  li'orks, 
vol.  iii.  pp.  19,  20. 


KING  EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH  261 


grief  is  henceforth  animated  by  some  higher  principle  of 
life.  We  need  to  resolutely  set  ourselves  to  revive  those 
ancient  virtues  which  won  for  us  our  freedom  at  home 
and  our  reputation  for  truth  and  honour  abroad.  The 
deep  reverence  for  the  British  flag  everywhere  springs  from 
the  recognition  of  our  love  of  liberty,  duty  and  truth. 

One  of  the  London  newspapers  reported  some  words 
spoken  by  people  in  that  marvellous  crowd  of  sorrowful 
and  reverent  mourners  who  passed  through  Westminster 
Hall  to  pay  their  last  homage  to  their  dead  King.  One 
person  said,  "  It  is  beautiful."  Another  said,  "  It  is  won- 
derful." A  third  said,  "  I  should  like  to  stay  here  and 
pray."  The  writer  of  the  report  made  the  just  comment 
that  the  third  speaker  expressed  most  truly  the  feeling 
which  filled  the  hearts  of  that  vast  concourse  of  British 
people.  If  the  spirit  of  this  feeling  remains  with  us,  if 
stronger  trust  in  God  and  a  more  genuine  recognition 
of  Him  in  life  and  conduct  fills  the  soul  of  the  nation, 
it  will  do  much  to  raise  the  tone  of  popular  thought  and 
expel  what  is  selfish  and,  therefore,  vulgar  among  us. 

The  best  tribute  which  we  can  pay  as  we  recall  the 
memory  of  the  late  King  is  to  resolve  on  earnest  and 
unselfish  devotion  to  the  welfare  of  the  kingdom  which 
he  loved  and  served  so  well,  and,  remembering  how 
much  he  was  able  to  accomplish  for  his  people  by  the 
influence  of  his  personality,  to  turn  all  endeavours  more 
to  the  making  of  noble  character  than  to  the  passing  of 
new  laws.  Laws  may  be  good  and  useful,  but  character 
is  a  far  greater  national  asset.  It  is  this  lesson  which 
national  loss  and  danger  are  teaching  us,  and,  if  we  can 


262       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


learn  it,  our  pain  and  peril  will  not  have  been  in  vain. 
If  henceforward  men  of  upright  character,  inflexible  honesty 
of  purpose,  and  unselfish  lives  are  gathered  round  our  King 
to  support  and  encourage  him  ;  if  the  lofty  and  gentle 
influences  of  his  happy  and  united  home  life  are  reflected 
in  the  homes  of  our  country  ;  if  the  passion  of  service  expels 
the  spirit  of  self-seeking  ;  if  personal  character  is  accepted 
as  the  real  strength  of  the  nation,  then  the  lessons  of  King 
Edward's  short  and  glorious  reign  will  not  be  wholly  thrown 
away. 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM 


Gentle  reader,  I  bespeak  your  charity  and  righteous 
judgment  as  you  read  this  chapter.  You  will  approach  it, 
I  fear,  with  certain  preconceived  opinions.  I  do  not  blame 
you  ;  for  I  do  not  see  how  it  can  be  otherwise.  The  man 
who  is  the  subject  of  the  chapter  looms  too  large  in  the 
imagination  of  men  to-day  to  be  ignored,  and  his  actions 
in  policy  and  war  have  been  necessarily  brought  under  the 
judgment  of  his  contemporaries.  People  have,  as  it  were, 
made  up  their  minds  about  him,  and  they  pronounce  their 
opinions  with  emphasis  and  without  hesitation.  I  am  not 
here  challenging  the  views  of  any  who  have  formed  their 
judgment  of  the  Emperor  on  adequate  and  carefully  con- 
sidered grounds.  1  am  not  putting  forward  my  own  opinion 
as  being  better  than  theirs.  I  am  content  to  say  that  we 
can  only  speak,  each  of  us,  from  such  knowledge  as  we 
possess  ;  we  are  all  responsible  to  take  care  that  our 
judgment  is  brought  strictly  within  the  compass  of  our 
knowledge,  and  that  the  impulses  of  resentment  or  dis- 
appointment, of  hasty  ignorance  and  even  natural  passion, 
should  be  allowed  no  place  in  the  formation  of  our  judgment 
of  our  fellow  men. 

To  speak  the  final  truth — we  are  none  of  us  qualified  to 
sit  in  judgment  upon  one  another,  and  all  that  wc  can  do  is 
263 


264        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 

to  set  down  our  impressions  based  on  knowledge,  and  even 
these  should  be  set  down  with  the  reservation  that  they  are 
not  designed  to  be  more  than  contributions  towards  right 
estimates,  and  in  no  sense  final  verdicts. 

Let  there,  then,  be  no  misunderstanding  concerning  the 
drift  and  purpose  of  this  chapter.  I  desire  only  to  put 
down  facts  within  my  own  experience,  and  at  the  same  time 
to  express  my  own  views  on  those  later  facts  which  are 
known  to  the  world.  In  speaking  of  my  experiences  I  may 
be  thought  to  throw  into  over-strong  relief  the  attractive 
and  good  features  of  the  subject  :  in  speaking  of  the  later 
facts  I  may  be  blamed  for  passing  to  another  extreme. 
This,  I  fear,  may  be  inevitable,  but  I  trust  that  I  shall 
neither  set  down  anything  in  malice,  nor  yet,  because  of  the 
warm  attachment  of  other  days,  appear  to  condone  things 
which  ought  to  provoke  just  indignation. 

The  method  which  I  propose,  therefore,  is  to  set  out  as 
clearly  as  I  can  the  picture  of  the  man  I  knew,  and  the 
traits  in  his  character  which  did  not  fail  to  attract  me  and  to 
awaken  an  attachment  which  was  genuine  and,  I  think, 
justified.  And  you,  kind  reader,  will,  I  hope,  understand 
that  it  could  not  be  my  part  now  or  at  any  time  to  traduce 
the  memory  of  a  friend,  even  when  in  bitter  disappointment 
I  found  myself  unable  to  approve  or  defend  his  actions.  If 
you,  therefore,  should  think  that  I  have  dealt  with  undue 
tenderness  at  any  moment,  kindly  remember  that  it  is  due 
to  an  affection  which  memory  holds  dear,  even  though  now 
the  wide  estranging  sea  of  difference  separates  our  hearts 
and  hopes  and  purposes.  As  I  write,  whatever  I  may  be 
writing — words  of  censure  or  words  of  appreciation — there 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM  265 


sounds  continually  in  my  heart,  like  the  tolling  of  a  funeral 
bell :  "  He  was  my  friend." 

My  first  picture  will  be  one  in  fair  colours,  because  it  is 
painted  before  the  atmosphere  clouded  and  the  thick  dark- 
ness enveloped  us  all.  It  is  the  picture  of  the  man  I  knew 
— towards  whose  life  and  friendship  I  was  drawn  by  circum- 
stances. It  was  in  circumstances  tinged  with  sorrow  that  I 
first  met  him  :  it  was  in  circumstances  just  touched  with  the 
early  clouds  of  impending  storm  that  1  last  saw  him.  In 
the  intervening  years — twenty- five  in  number — the  links 
which  fastened  the  bonds  of  friendliness  increased  in 
strength  ;  and  it  would  be  an  unworthy  thing  in  me  to 
deny  or  belittle  the  growth  of  affection  and  of  sympathetic 
hope  which  sprang  up  in  my  heart  during  those  years.  At 
times  I  have  been  tempted,  in  sheer  dismay,  to  be  silent 
altogether  ;  but  I  have  reflected  that,  whatever  may  be  the 
darkness  which  these  last  years  have  brought  upon  his 
reputation  and  the  censures  which  have  been  so  widespread 
and  severe,  it  is  only  right  that  the  other  side  of  the  picture 
should  be  shown,  and  even  at  the  risk  of  being,  perhaps, 
misunderstood,  which  is  easy  ;  or  misrepresented,  which  is 
not  difficult,  I  ought  to  put  on  record  the  experiences  which 
were  mine  in  days  when  I  hoped  that  the  securities  of  peace 
and  the  forces  which  work  for  the  welfare  of  the  world 
would  be  strengthened  and  promoted  by  the  influence  which 
I  knew  he  could  wield,  and  which  I  had  good  ground  for 
believing  that  he  would  wield,  for  the  realization  of  our  best 
ideals. 

Had  we  not  often  together  indulged  in  dreams  of  what 
the  world  might  be  under  the  united  influence  of  those 


266        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


powers  which  seemed  to  share  common  ideals  ?  Yes,  I 
know — I  know  that  other  and  sinister  influences  were  at 
work,  and  that  the  force  of  brutal  and  unworthy  ideals  was 
making  itself  felt  throughout  Germany  ;  but  of  these  evil 
powers  we  knew  nothing.  I  say  "  we  "  :  I  certainly  knew 
nothing  of  the  poisonous  teaching  which  was  debasing  the 
vision  of  the  German  people,  and  my  impression  is  that 
these  influences  had  not  then  flowed  into  the  immediate 
home  circle  of  the  Emperor.  I  think  that  there  were 
visions  of  a  noble  life,  order  and  influence  which  rose  upon 
his  thoughts,  held  his  imagination,  and  satisfied  his  soul. 
That  there  were  other  and  less  worthy  visions  which  invaded 
his  mind  later  may  be  quite  true.  Every  one  of  us  who 
has  any  knowledge  of  himself  must  know  that  there  are 
moments  when  the  lower  self  seizes  upon  and  draws  pictures 
which  in  our  better  moments  we  should  repudiate  as  below 
the  call — the  sacred  call — of  life. 

Understand  then,  dear  reader,  that  what  I  am  drawing 
now  is  the  picture  of  what  I  thought  my  friend  to  be,  and 
of  what  I  think  he  genuinely  wished  to  be  in-  the  happy 
time  before  lower  influences  swept  in  upon  his  life  and  bore 
him  away  upon  a  disastrous  flood  of  wrong. 

My  first  conversation  with  the  Emperor  William  took 
place  at  Osborne  in  1889.  It  was  in  August,  during  the 
Cowes  week,  a  few  months  after  he  had  succeeded  his 
father.  It  was  a  Sunday  evening.  As  Osborne  House 
was  very  full  of  guests,  I  stayed  with  my  wife  at  Canon 
Prothero's.  The  Queen  invited  us  to  dine  in  the  evening. 
After  dinner,  in  the  drawing-room  the  Emperor  came  across 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM  267 


the  room  and  shook  hands  with  me  very  cordially.  He 
placed  himself  with  his  back  to  the  door,  and  with  a  very 
rapid  movement  swept  one  arm  behind  his  back.  He  com- 
menced conversation  by  saying  that  he  was  pleased  to  meet 
me,  of  whom  he  had  heard.  This  did  not  give  me  much 
opening,  but  as  there  had  been  reports  of  strikes  in  some 
parts  of  Germany  I  asked  him  if  he  could  tell  me  how  they 
originated.  In  reply  he  spoke  rapidly  and  well  :  he  showed 
himself  to  be  acquainted  with  the  details  of  the  strike 
movement  and  with  the  conditions  which  had  led  up  to 
it.  He  marshalled  easily  the  facts  and  factors  which 
needed  to  be  known  if  a  fair  judgment  was  to  be  reached. 
He  gave  details  of  the  geography  of  the  affected  districts, 
the  racial  and  religious  qualities  of  the  population.  The 
strikes  in  Westphalia  he  attributed  to  three  causes  :  first, 
the  strong  Polish  element  in  the  district — a  people  ignorant 
and  fanatical  ;  he  illustrated  the  diiiiculties  by  telling  of  two 
men  who  were  decapitated  for  offences — outrage  followed 
by  murder,  "  crimes  I  never  forgive."  A  second  cause  he 
believed  to  be  the  custom  which  led  rich  men  to  leave  the 
district  as  soon  as  their  fortunes  were  made.  The  methods 
of  these  employers  of  labour  seemed  to  be  fairly  open  to 
criticism.  The  Poles  were  ready  to  work  for  comparatively 
low  wages  :  fortunes  were  made,  and  the  emigration  of 
those  who  had  made  their  fortunes  left  the  place  in  a  forlorn 
condition.  The  third  cause  was  the  absence  of  any  Govern- 
ment works  in  the  district.  Wherever  Government  works 
existed  the  scale  of  living  of  the  artisans  improved :  decent 
houses  were  built.  Thus  a  standard  of  general  comfort  and 
respectability  was  set  up,  as  in  Silesia  ;  but  in  Westphalia 


268        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


this  stimulus  to  a  better  condition  of  things  did  not  exist. 
Hence,  partly  owing  to  the  character  of  the  population, 
partly  to  the  heedlessness  or  v/ant  of  sympathy  of  the 
employers,  and  partly  to  the  lack  of  Government  example, 
things  were  in  a  bad  way,  and  the  population  ripe  for 
strike. 

The  conversation  then  changed  from  Germany  to  Rome, 
which  the  Emperor  had  recently  visited.  He  spoke  in  a 
vivid  and  interesting  way  of  his  reception  at  the  Vatican. 
The  Pope  read  a  statement  very  carefully  prepared.  Its 
theme  was  the  restoration  of  Rome  to  the  authority  of  the 
Pope.  The  Emperor  interrupted  the  statement,  and  asked 
how  it  could  be  expected  that  the  Protestant  Emperor  should 
restore  it.  The  Pope  paused,  made  no  reply,  but  continued 
his  set  speech.  Later,  the  Emperor,  raising  his  voice  so 
that  all  who  were  present  might  hear,  said  :  "  I  tell  you  that 
if  the  King  of  Italy  left,  the  people  of  Rome  would  rise 
against  you  and  make  the  Vatican  and  its  Library  national 
property."  In  the  view  of  the  Emperor  the  policy  of  the 
Pope  was  to  make  war  between  France  and  Italy,  in  the 
hope  of  thus  regaining  Rome.  In  such  a  war  Germany 
would  be  neutral.  Speaking  of  France,  the  Emperor  said  : 
"  France  is  the  surprise  box  of  Europe.  Boulanger  might 
come  to  the  front  and  be  emperor — who  knows  t " 

He  gave  me  a  graphic  picture  of  Windthorst,  a  man 
much  in  public  view  at  the  time.  All  through  this  conver- 
sation I  was  struck  by  the  mastery  of  details  he  showed  and 
the  fresh  and  vivid  manner  of  his  speaking. 

Early  in  1905  I  had  a  letter  from  Lord  KnoUys  telling 
me  that  the  German  Emperor  wished  that  the  King  would 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM 


269 


send  a  prince,  a  peer  and  a  prelate  to  attend  the  ceremony 
of  the  dedication  or  opening  of  the  new  cathedral,  or  Dom 
Kirche,  in  Berlin,  and  that  he  wrote  to  intimate  to  me  the 
King's  wish  that  I  should  go  to  Berlin  as  the  prelate  of  the 
party.  Prince  Arthur  of  Connaught  was  the  selected 
prince,  and  Lord  Churchill  the  selected  peer  for  the 
occasion. 

Our  party  reached  Berlin  soon  after  seven  on  Sunday 
morning.  A  guard  of  honour  met  our  train,  the  stalwart 
and  imposing  troops  made  the  station  pavement  resound 
with  their  martial  tread.  The  sight  of  these  men  lifting 
their  knees  up  to  the  level  of  their  navels  and  bringing  their 
feet  down  with  a  stunning  force  had  to  me  an  air  of  musical 
comedy,  but  comedy  spoilt  by  the  deafening  echoes  which 
their  stamping  made.  Prince  Arthur  and  Lord  Churchill 
were  taken  to  apartments  in  the  Schloss.  Captain  Wyndham 
and  I  were  whisked  off  to  the  British  Embassy.  There  I 
was  shown  to  my  room,  and  after  the  long  and  dusty  journey 
I  rejoiced  at  the  opportunity  of  a  bath,  feeling  that  there 
was  time  to  take  things  quietly,  as  the  only  engagement  I 
knew  of  was  that  of  my  promise  to  preach  at  the  English 
church  at  eleven  o'clock.  I  was  proceeding  leisurely  when  a 
knock  came  to  my  door,  and  a  voice  from  without  announced 
to  me  that  the  Emperor  would  receive  us  at  half-past  nine. 
It  was  then  getting  close  to  nine  o'clock.  I  hastily  com- 
pleted dressing.  1  scrambled  down  to  the  breakfast-room. 
I  managed  to  seize  some  toast  and  to  swallow  half  a  cup  of 
coffee.  We  flung  ourselves  into  the  carriage  and  were 
whirled  off  to  the  Schloss,  where  we  arrived  for  the  reception. 
We  were  shown  into  a  room  which  bristled  with  models 


FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


of  ships  of  war.  The  sight  of  these,  I  confess,  startled  me. 
1  was  not  prepared  for  such  a  manifestation  of  marine 
ambition. 

The  Emperor  came  in  ;  he  was  very  cordial  and  in  high 
spirits  ;  his  quick  eye  detected  something  wrong  in  Captain 
Wyndham's  uniform,  and  he  chaffed  him  about  it.  As  he 
greeted  me  he  said,  "  It  is  a  shame  first  to  make  the  Bishop 
sick  and  then  to  make  him  preach  a  sermon."  The 
suggestion,  however,  was  needless,  for  we  had  had  a  calm 
crossing.  Two  things  were  in  the  Emperor's  mind  :  the 
trouble  in  store  for  England  through  the  German  action 
against  the  Jesuits  ;  those  who  found  things  too  hard 
in  Germany  would  find  refuge  in  England.  The  other 
matter  was  the  recent  fire  in  Long  Acre,  which  had  destroyed 
some  large  show-rooms  for  motor  cars.  The  misfortune 
would  be  good  for  German  trade.  These  topics  were 
lightly  and  laughingly  touched  upon.  I  was  growing 
apprehensive  about  my  engagement  in  the  English  Church 
at  eleven.  However,  we  were  dismissed  before  long,  and 
I  had  just  time  to  go  back  to  the  embassy,  to  robe  and 
to  reach  the  church. 

In  the  evening  I  dined  with  the  Emperor  at  the  Schloss. 
There  were  perhaps  forty  guests.  The  party  broke  up  early, 
and  I  was  not  sorry  to  get  to  bed.  The  following  day, 
Monday,  was  the  day  of  the  great  ceremonial  which  had 
brought  us  to  Berlin.  The  new  cathedral  was  solemnly 
dedicated.  The  new  building  was  the  first  Protestant  Dom 
erected  in  Germany.  It  cost  half  a  million  of  sovereigns. 
Its  dome  rose  to  a  height  nine  feet  greater  than  St.  Paul's. 
It  replaced  the  simple  old  church,  which  was  erected  some 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM 


271 


hundred  and  fifty  years  earlier  by  Frederick  the  Great, 
and  which  had  sheltered  the  remains  of  the  Great  Elector, 
of  King  Frederick  I  (of  Prussia),  and  King  Frederick 
William  II.  The  cathedral  had  been  eleven  years  in 
building.  At  the  dedication  service  addresses  were  given 
by  Dr.  Dryander  and  Dr.  Kritzinger.  "  Ein'  feste  Burg  " 
was  sung  between  the  two  addresses  and  "  Nun  danket 
alle  Gott "  was  sung  at  the  close. 

The  service  lasted  about  two  hours.  The  stately  dome 
was  filled  by  a  distinguished  congregation  ;  dazzling  uni- 
forms were  to  be  seen  everywhere,  against  which  the  black 
robes  and  white  collars  of  the  Lutheran  clergy  looked 
sombre.  We  lunched  at  the  Schloss  ;  I  found  myself 
seated  between  the  Grand  Duke  of  Baden  and  Admiral 
Zechiarias  of  the  Danish  Navy.  After  lunch  we  attended  a 
levee,  being  first  introduced  to  the  Emperor,  who,  thanking 
me  for  the  little  silver  clock  I  had  sent  in  commemoration 
of  his  silver  wedding,  said  he  had  never  seen  one  like  it. 
The  arrival  of  the  clock  had  caused,  I  may  here  mention, 
considerable  misgiving  among  the  oflScials  of  the  palace. 
When  the  parcel  arrived,  some  suspicious  servant  detected 
the  ticking  of  the  clock.  Immediately  imagination  suggested 
danger.  What  infernal  machine  was  this  which  was  intro- 
duced to  the  Imperial  abode  Not  till  inquiry  had  been 
made  and  I  had  assured  them  that  the  parcel  only  contained 
an  innocent  clock  was  the  gift  handed  over  to  the  Emperor. 
The  clock  was  one  in  which  the  minutes  were  marked  on 
the  pages  of  a  little  book.  There  was  a  kind  of  poetry  about 
the  structure  ;  an  invisible  finger  turned  the  pages  of  the 
record  of  time.    Every  minute  a  tiny  page  was  turned.  I 


272        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


had  sent  it  to  the  Emperor  the  night  of  my  arrival,  and  with 
it  I  had  sent  the  following  lines — 

Take,  Gracious  Sir  and  Madam,  with  my  rhyme, 
My  little  gift,  a  chronicler  of  time. 
Whose  quiet  finger,  like  an  ancient -sage. 
Doth  firmly  hold,  then  turn  the  frequent  page. 
Thus  quick  and  bright,  like  stars  that  disappear, 
The  passing  days  have  brought  the  silver  year. 
Glad  days  they  were,  despite  the  hours  of  grief. 
And  sweet  their  tale  ;  for  love  did  turn  the  leaf. 
And  for  the  leaves  unturned  you  have  no  care. 
Nor  seek  to  read  the  future  written  there  ; 
For  God  is  love,  and  be  life  long  or  brief, 
God  marks  the  days,  and  He  doth  turn  the  leaf. 

But  this  is  a  digression  anent  the  little  clock,  the  like  of 
which  the  Emperor  said  he  had  never  seen.  Of  course,  in 
such  a  levee,  where  guests  were  received  one  by  one,  the 
audience  was  the  briefest  possible  to  each.  From  the 
Emperor's  presence  we  were  passed  one  by  one  into  the 
Empress's  audience  chamber,  and  here  only  a  few  kindly 
words  were  spoken. 

In  the  evening  there  was  a  splendid  banquet — some 
three  hundred  guests  sat  down  ;  but  before  the  dinner  I  had 
one  of  those  surprises  which  fling  upon  one  unexpected 
responsibility.  I  was  in  the  room  where  the  guests  were 
rapidly  assembling,  when  the  Emperor  appeared  ;  he  came 
to  me  with  an  envelope  in  his  hand.  This  he  gave  to  me, 
saying,  "  I  want  you  to  look  at  the  enclosed.  Study  it,  and 
let  me  know  after  dinner  what  you  think  of  it."  The 
envelope  contained  an  analysis  of  Mr.  Houston  Chamber- 
lain's book  on  the  Philosophy  of  Kant,    The  Emperor  said  a 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM  273 


few  words  about  it  and  then  left  me.  Almost  immediately 
afterwards  the  signal  was  given  and  the  guests  streamed 
into  the  banquet -room — the  Weisesaal.  We  took  our 
places.  It  was  a  large  room  panelled  with  white  marble  and 
adorned  with  life-sized  statues  of  the  kings  of  Prussia. 
The  guest  on  my  right  was  an  old  veteran  of  the  Franco- 
German  War,  who  spoke  of  the  numbers  engaged  in  the 
Russo-Japanese  War  compared  with  those  who  fought  in 
1870.  He  thought  that  the  numbers  engaged  in  some  of 
the  heaviest  battles  of  the  earlier  war  were  about  equal  to 
those  which  joined  in  conflict  in  the  struggle  then  going  on 
in  the  East.  The  battle  of  Mukden  had  not  then  been 
fought.  During  the  dinner  the  Emperor  looked  down  the 
table,  and  when  he  had  caught  my  look  in  response  he 
smiled  and  took  wine  with  me. 

Meanwhile  I  was  anxious  to  study  the  letter  he  had 
given  me  ;  1  managed  to  take  one  or  two  surreptitious 
glances  at  it,  and  this  was  what  I  found — 

This  author,  Mr.  Houston  Chamberlain,  has  adopted  a  most 
ingenious  method  of  defining  the  character  of  man  in  its  double 
composition  respecting  the  terrestrial  and  the  religious  man  in  him, 
namely — 


Man  (as  the  bearer  of  experience) 


Knowledge  (Science) 

Religion 

Nature 
1 

.  1 
Liberty 

Understanding 

Personality 

Laws 
1 

Prescriptions 

Theoretical  reason 

1. 

Practical  reason 

Man  (as  reason). 

T 


274        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


Happily,  the  analysis  told  its  own  tale,  and  enabled  me 
to  master  the  general  line  of  thought  which  was  to  be 
discussed. 

The  dinner  over,  the  guests  were  marshalled  into  the 
long  drawing-room — strictly  a  broad  corridor  of  the  castle, 
flanked  with  pictures.  Conversation  went  on  freely  as 
groups  were  formed,  and  as  the  evening  wore  on  1  worked 
my  way  towards  the  doorway  through  which  the  Emperor 
must  go,  as  I  felt  bound  to  show  myself  ready  to  meet  his 
wishes  and  to  discuss  the  problem  he  had  put  before  me.  I 
noticed  that  he  was  surrounded  by  a  small  knot  of  Lutheran 
clergymen  to  whom  he  was  talking  with  great  animation. 
Amid  the  buzz  of  conversation  I  heard  the  court  chamber- 
lain say  :  "  The  Empress  is  getting  tired  ;  Lmust  do  some- 
thing." Presently  the  Emperor  moved  away  towards  the 
door.  It  was  then  late,  after  eleven  o'clock,  and  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  that  my  presence  would  be  dispensed 
with  and  the  projected  discussion  postponed  ;  but  it  was  not 
to  be.  The  Emperor  came  along,  speaking  a  word  here 
and  there  to  his  guests.  When  he  came  near,  he  drew  me 
with  him,  saying,  "  Now,  if  you  want  a  chat,  come  and  have 
tea  with  us."  Whereupon  we  passed  through  several  large 
rooms  ;  in  each  a  guard  of  honour  was  stationed,  placed 
down  the  sides  of  the  room  ;  there  was  history  in  their  uni- 
forms, and  we  seemed  to  pass  from  the  middle  of  the 
eighteenth  century  to  the  dawn  of  the  twentieth  ;  the 
uniforms  of  one  of  the  earlier  guards  recalled  the  troops 
which  might  have  fought  at  Dettingen  ;  the  last  room  was 
made  splendid  with  the  white  uniforms  and  glittering  orna- 
ments of  the  Imperial  Guard.    At  length  we  reached  a 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM  275 


solid  mahogany  door  through  which  we  passed  into  a 
spacious  and  well-furnished  library.  Here  the  Emperor 
introduced  me  to  the  superintendent  of  the  royal  theatres. 
I  was  interested  in  the  national  recognition  of  the  Drama, 
and  I  took  the  opportunity  of  seeking  to  ascertain  the 
method  of  supporting  and  encouraging  dramatic  art  in 
Germany.  The  cost  appeared  to  fall  very  largely  upon  the 
Emperor's  private  purse  ;  he  used  to  contribute  something 
to  all  theatres  which  were  officially  recognized  as  royal, 
whether  at  Berlin  or  Hanover  or  elsewhere.  As  the  con- 
versation then  turned  on  the  drama  I  gave  the  Emperor  a 
brief  sketch  of  a  drama  which  I  had  written,  and  as  I  did  so, 
he  translated  at  times  for  the  benefit  of  the  superintendent 
any  point  or  incident  which  the  superintendent  had  failed  to 
follow. 

Soon,  however,  the  conversation  left  the  drama  behind 
and  turned  upon  Biblical  criticism.  This,  the  Emperor 
said,  had  restored  to  him  the  reality  of  Bible  characters. 
Instead  of  being  shadowy  figures  they  had  become  living 
human  beings.  Abraham,  who  had  been  little  more  than 
the  shadow  of  a  shade,  was  now  veritable  flesh  and  blood. 
He  described  the  picture  which,  helped  by  the  account 
given  him  by  an  officer  who  had  travelled  in  Asia  Minor, 
presented  Abraham  as  a  powerful  sheikh,  a  man  who  could 
command  some  five  thousand  spears,  and  whose  spacious 
tent  could  accommodate  perhaps  five  hundred  guests. 

There  was  not  much  to  be  said  about  Mr.  Houston 
Chamberlain's  views  of  Kant — indeed,  the  conversation 
naturally  drifted  in  other  directions  and  took  on  a  more 
serious  religious  turn.    As  we  were  talking,  a  door  behind 


276        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


the  Emperor  slowly  and  quietly  opened  and  the  face  of  the 
Empress  appeared.  The  Emperor  did  not  see  her  ;  she 
evidently  wished  to  be  unobserved  and  she  withdrew  as 
quietly  as  she  came.  Her  face  was  the  affectionate  and 
anxious  face  of  the  wife  who  fears  to  intrude,  and  yet  fears 
that  in  his  eagerness  her  husband  may  overtax  his  strength. 
The  day  had  been  an  arduous  one  for  the  Emperor. 
Personally,  as  we  talked  I  felt  my  powers  of  attention 
beginning  to  flag  through  sheer  fatigue.  Only  the  wonder- 
ful readiness  and  fascinating  camaraderie  of  the  Emperor 
made  one  forget  fatigue  in  the  vivacity  and  interest  which 
he  brought  into  the  conversation. 

It  was  long  after  midnight  when  we  reached  the  British 
Embassy,  where  the  kind  and  thoughtful  hospitality  of 
Sir  Frank  Lascelles  compensated  for  all  our  fatigue. 

Here  is  a  little  story  of  the  Emperor.  If  it  could  be 
read  without  the  pressure  of  perplexity  which  the  war  has 
brought  upon  our  judgment,  it  would  be  read  as  a  happy 
record  of  kindly  thought  and  sympathy.  Perhaps  even 
now  it  may  be  read  as  disclosing  another  view  of  a  character 
which  bewilders  us  with  its  inconsistencies. 

Some  years  ago  the  Emperor  was  cruising  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Sicily.  He  recalled  to  his  mind  a  very  beau- 
tiful garden,  which  he  wished  to  visit  again  and  to  show  to 
some  of  his  officers.  He  landed  and  asked  permission  to 
see  the  garden.  The  lady  of  the  house  came  to  receive  the 
Emperor.  She  had  been  left  a  widow  since  the  Emperor's 
previous  visit.  The  party,  however,  went  round  the  garden. 
As  they  walked  among  the  beauties  of  the  place,  the  Emperor 
saw  that  the  effort  she  was  making  to  entertain  them  was  too 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM  277 


much  for  the  lady.  When  he  perceived  this,  he  turned  to 
her  and  said,  "  You  don't  want  us  here  :  it  is  too  much  for 
you  :  we  must  go  away."  The  kind  words  and  the  kindly 
sympathy  overpowered  the  lady  :  the  bulwark  of  her  self- 
restraint  gave  way.  As  she  burst  into  tears  the  Emperor 
led  her  to  a  bench  near  at  hand.  They  sat  down,  and  the 
poor  lady  told  the  burden  of  anxiety  which  lay  heavy  on  her 
heart.  Her  husband  had  not  been  a  strict  observer  of  the 
outward  forms  of  religion.  The  widow's  heart  bore,  besides 
the  weight  of  her  loss,  an  added  anxiety  :  with  her  sorrow 
mingled  a  dread  concerning  her  husband's  fate  :  the  religious 
advisers  round  about  her  had  spoken  hard  and  harsh  words  : 
in  their  view  the  husband  was  one  upon  whom  a  dark  and 
eternal  doom  had  fallen.  To  the  poor,  broken,  bruised  and 
bewildered  heart,  the  Emperor  spoke  the  gospel  of  divine 
love  :  he  combated  the  terrors  which  a  superstitious  and 
cold-hearted  theology  had  aroused  :  the  words  of  a  better 
hope,  based  upon  the  love  which  never  fails,  fell  like  refresh- 
ing dew  upon  that  suffering  soul.  Thus,  in  the  middle  of 
a  holiday  excursion  an  opportunity  of  helping  a  sorrowing 
fellow-creature  came  in  his  way,  and  in  thought  and  sym- 
pathy the  Emperor  was  ready  to  minister  to  the  heartbroken 
woman. 

I  heard  the  story  from  the  Emperor's  lips.  It  was  told 
with  simplicity,  without  a  scintilla  of  egotism  :  it  was  recited 
only  as  an  illustration  of  the  hard  and  cold  teaching  which 
prevailed  in  some  quarters  and  which  seemed  to  ignore  the 
amplitude  and  tenderness  of  divine  love. 

In  putting  together  these  reminiscences  it  is  by  no  means 
my  aim  to  make  finished  studies  of  any  whom  I  have  met. 


278        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


The  hour  for  such  finished  studies  has  not  come.  At  the 
best  we  can  only  make  approximate  guesses  at  the  true 
character,  even  of  our  most  intimate  friend.  If  the  heart 
nearest  our  own  fails  to  follow  the  reason  of  our  smile  and 
of  our  sigh,  it  follows  that  a  just  view  of  human  character 
is  almost  wholly  beyond  human  range  of  measurement.  We 
may  know  ajittle  :  we  may  infer  a  little  :  we  may  guess  or 
imagine  a  great  deal  ;  but  when  we  have  done  all  there  are 
depths  in  the  human  soul  which  we  cannot  fathom.  Every 
man  is  finally  a  mystery  to  his  brother  man.  God  alone, 
who  knows  all,  can  measure  all,  and  His  judgment  will  be 
more  merciful  because  more  just,  and  more  severe  because 
more  merciful  than  the  fierce  and  faulty  judgments  of  men. 
David,  when  the  prophet  proposed  to  him  three  choices  of 
the  judgments  which  should  fall  upon  him,  replied  with  the 
condition,  "  Let  me  not  fall  into  the  hand  of  man."  Better 
and  more  tolerable  was  the  judgment  of  God.  Our  Lord 
would  have  us  judge  nothing  before  the  time  ;  and  however 
much  we  may  be  tempted  to  pass  judgment  upon  one  who  has 
disturbed  the  peace  of  Europe  and  let  loose  the  fierce  beast 
of  war  in  our  day,  it  is  still  not  for  us  to  attempt  to  deter- 
mine the  ultimate  and  unerring  verdict  which  will  hereafter 
be  given  on  his  character.  All  that  I  can  do  is  to  set  down 
some  of  the  Emperor  William's  utterances,  and  leave  to  those 
who  read  to  harmonize  them  or  otherwise  with  the  theories 
they  have  formed  of  his  character. 

I  set  down  here  a  few  extracts  from  his  letters.  They 
will  serve  to  illustrate  some  traits  which  are  not  widely 
known.  They  touch  on  matters  of  family  feeling,  religious 
conviction,  and  political  ideals.     Under  ordinary  circum- 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM 


stances  some  of  these  quotations  would  not  have  been  made: 
they  would  have  been  reserved  for  private  or  later  record. 
But  the  war  has  altered  conditions,  and  it  cannot  be  said 
that  any  of  the  following  extracts  are  likely  to  increase  any 
existing  prejudice  against  the  Emperor.  To  me  it  seems 
that  their  publication  here  and  -now  may  lead  some  people 
to  ask  themselves  whether  their  judgment  has  not  been 
formed  on  partial  knowledge.  The  conclusions  to  which  I 
myself  have  come  I  shall  reserve  till  later.  For  the  present 
I  must  let  the  following  extracts,  which  will  follow,  speak  for 
themselves. 

It  will,  however,  be  well  to  recall,  as  a  kind  of  preface, 
the  immediate  circumstances  which  led  to  our  interchange 
of  letters. 

In  1 90 1  I  was  brought  more  closely  into  contact  with 
the  Emperor.  In  that  year  the  Empress  Frederick  died. 
She  had  expressed  to  me  some  of  her  last  wishes,^  and  de- 
sired that  the  English  Burial  Service  might  be  used.  When 
her  death  took  place,  it  appeared  that  others  had  not  known 
of  her  wishes.  I  was,  happily,  able  to  say  definitely  what 
she  had  wished.  I  went  over  to  Germany  by  the  Emperor's 
wish,  as  I  have  told  in  my  former  volume,  and  the  sacred- 
ness  of  the  occasion  forged  another  link  in  the  friendly 
character  of  my  acquaintance  with  the  Emperor.  On  my 
arrival  at  Homburg  I  had  an  interview  with  him  at  the 
Schloss.  He  spoke  of  his  early  home  life,  of  phases  of 
religious  thought  which  his  mother  had  experienced,  of 
the  days  when  her  mind  inclined  to  free-thinking,  and  of 
his  ignorance  of  the  later  phases  of  her  religious  thought. 
1  See  my  former  volume,  Some  Pages  of  My  Life,  p.  305  . 


28o        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


We  spoke  of  the  divergent  forms  in  which  the  religious 
spirit  expressed  itself.  He  agreed  that  the  spirit  was  more 
than  the  letter.  I  said  that  I  thought  individuality  in  men 
demanded  or  could  only  accept  religion  in  some  form  which 
appealed  to  it,  and  that  consequently  we  must  expect  that 
there  would  be  varieties  of  form,  even  when  the  faith  was 
the  same.    I  cited  Alfred  de  Musset's  line — 

"  Mon  verre  n'est  pas  grand,  mais  je  bois  dans  mon  verre  " — 

and  I  reminded  him  that  our  Lord  used  water  as  the  image 
of  the  faith.    "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  water,  clear  as  crystal." 

The  same  evening,  at  six  o'clock,  we  had  the  English 
service  in  the  Friedrichshof  :  the  Emperor  and  all  the 
members  of  the  family  were  present.  When  the  service 
ended,  the  Emperor  knelt  for  a  few  moments  in  silent 
prayer  by  his  mother's  coffin  :  against  his  mourning  dress 
the  red,  white  and  blue  of  the  Union  Jack,  which  covered 
the  bier,  stood  out  in  strong  contrast.  The  German 
Funeral  Service  was  held  on  the  Sunday  (August  ii). 
After  the  service  I  went  to  Friedrichshof  and  saw  the 
Emperor.  He  told  me  that  he  had  spoken  to  the  King, 
and  had  his  leave  to  offer  me  a  decoration.  I  thanked 
him,  but  said  I  hoped  he  knew  that  love  had  brought  me. 

A  few  months  later,  in  January  1902,  I  had  a  letter 
from  the  Emperor,  in  which  he  referred  to  the  sad  days  at 
Cronberg.  He  referred  to  those  awful  August  days  when 
the  beloved  mother  was  removed  after  the  most  terrible  and 
hard-fought  battles  Heaven  ever  sent  man  to  fight.  "  It 
was,"  he  said,  "  an  awful  year  :  to  think  I  had  to  attend  at 
the  passing  away  of  dear  grandmamma  and  my  mother — - 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM  281 


mother  and  daughter,  two  great  queens,  each  in  her  way. 
But  I  am  thankful  to  the  Lord  that  I  was  able  to  live 
with  them,  and  hope  that  I  shall  never  be  unworthy  of 
them." 

It  is  pleasant  to  find  this  note  of  grateful  remembrance 
and  reverent  affection  in  the  letter. 

Other  letters  followed,  and  the  correspondence  between 
us  was  fairly  regular  up  till  January  19 14. 

The  traits  of  character  disclosed  by  these  letters  may  be 
grouped  under  three  headings,  viz.  :  personal  afFection  or 
attachment,  religious  conviction,  and  ideals  of  peace  for  the 
world. 

A  warm  heart  and  a  generous  capacity  for  friendship,  and  a 
ready  appreciation  of  the  good  qualities  of  others  are  seen  in 
these  letters.  One  or  two  illustrations  will  suffice.  Thus 
on  the  death  of  the  late  King  Edward,  after  saying,  as  I 
have  already  quoted  (p.  244)  that 

King  Edward  represented  the  incarnation  of  the 
fine  qualities  of  his  countrymen — Britain  in  mourning 
him  mourns  herself — 

he  continued — 

My  heart  yearns  to  be  with  my  Aunt  and  King 
George  and  his  family  to  help  them  to  carry  this  awful 
burden  and  to  assist  them  through  the  trying  hours.  .  .  . 
May  God  help  us  all  ;  His  will  be  done. 

His  experience  had  led  him  to  value  simple  and  un- 
affected friendship,  and  to  dislike  and  distrust  the  empty 
and  conventional  amiabilities  met  with  in  fashionable  circles. 
He  hated  social  insincerities,  and  quoted  with  approval 


282        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


Emerson's  words  :  "  I  much  prefer  the  company  of  plough- 
boys  and  tin-pedlars  to  the  silken  and  perfumed  amity, 
which  only  celebrates  days  of  encounter  by  a  frivolous 
display,  by  riches  in  a  curricle  and  dinners  at  the  best 
taverns."  "  This,"  the  Emperor  says,  "  ought  to  be  brought 
home  to  the  young  generation  of  to-day  when  one  sees  the 
way  they  treat  poor  friendship.  Friendship  is  like  a  musical 
problem.  "  Two  friends  are  and  ought  to  be  like  two  instru- 
ments of  music  equally  tuned,  touch  the  one  and  the  other 
will  respond  in  the  same  key."    (March  1908.) 

The  letters  show  a  strong  family  affection  and  a  yearning 
to  realize  a  genuine  and  unartificial  friendship.  Blood-ties 
were  much  to  him.  When  he  found  himself  on  English 
soil,  he  felt  himself  at  home,  and  his  spirit  quickly  responded 
to  the  generous  affection  which  met  him.  "  I  am  so  glad  to 
be  here  again  "  (the  words  are  written  from  Windsor), "  and 
most  touched  and  grateful  for  all  kindness  shown  to  us  by 
everybody."    The  date  is  November  1907. 

Religious  convictions  show  themselves  in  these  letters, 
and  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  their  expression  suggests  a  deep 
and  truly  spiritual  grasp.  They  are  not  doctrinaire  or 
speculative  ;  they  breathe  a  spirit  of  personal  and  practical 
conviction. 

His  wish  is  that  the  personal  communion  of  the  soul 
with  Christ  were  more  widely  understood.  This,  I  take  it, 
is  the  meaning  of  the  following  aspiration — 

Would  that  mankind    learnt  to  appreciate  the 
Saviour's  personality  more.    (December  1907.) 

That  I  have  interpreted  rightly  the  underlying  thought 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM  283 


of  these  words  will  be  clear,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  when 
we  place  other  utterances  alongside  it.  Thus  he  writes  in 
1 9 10 — 

The  discussion  about  Christ  is  very  animated  here 
just  now  .  .  .  spiritual  and  religious  questions  are  on 
the  platform,  showing  that  there  is  a  thirst  and  seeking 
for  light.    Thank  God  ! 

Or,  again,  referring  to  a  book  which  brought  out  the 
happy  intercourse  of  our  Lord  with  men,  he  writes — 

That  is  a  manner  which  must  appeal  to  the  most 
dull -minded  and  dull-souled  person  alive.  The 
person  of  the  Lord  is  humanly  brought  into  con- 
tact with  you,  so  to  say,  on  a  level  with  you  as 
never  before,  and  then  by  a  clever  description  of  the 
psychological  changes  through  which  the  Saviour  passes 
during  His  work  at  a  soul,  He  slowly  rises  from  out 
His  worldly  brothers,  etc.,  and  soars  high  above  them, 
the  Son  of  God,  but  the  Saviour  at  the  same  time. 
(January  1909.) 
Or,  take  this  intimate  self-revelation — 

Often  moments  come  when  in  a  dilemma  of 
choice  I  was  at  a  loss  how  to  act,  and  fell  back  upon 
His  (Christ's)  admonitions.  I  chose  His  side.  The 
result  was  not  what  I  anticipated,  even  the  contrary. 
But  then  what  feeling  of  hope  and  trust  even  in  the 
adversest  of  moments  pervades  you,  "  the  conviction  of 
having  done  right,  of  having  a  good  conscience,"  and 
thereby  feeling  Him  on  your  side.  Also  in  distress, 
what  a  stafF  to  lean  upon.    (December  1906.) 

We  can  readily  see  how  a  little  grain  of  self-deception 
may  enter  into  the  kind  of  choice  here  spoken  of,  and  what 


284        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


a  harvest  of  spiritual  blundering  may  ensue.  Nevertheless, 
the  spirit  which  seeks  to  express  itself  here  is  not  that  of 
affectation  or  insincerity  ;  it  is  the  language  which  a  genuine 
Christian  soul  has  often  used.  The  conviction  of  the  real 
guidance  which  the  Lord  gives  to  His  single-minded  dis- 
ciple is  always  breaking  out  in  these  letters.  He  finds 
pleasure  in  a  book  sent  to  him,  because  this  aspect  of 
Christ's  work  is  given  prominence. 

It  (the  book)  corresponds  to  my  mode  of  thinking 
and  is  very  attractive  by  the  able  manner  with  which  it 
shows  the  marvellous  and  versatile  way  in  which  the 
Lord  takes  a  soul  in  hand,  revealing  His  talent  in  the 
knowledge  of  man,  and  the  victorious  power  He  wields 
over  their  souls.    (March  1910.) 

How  genuinely  he  rejoices  in  any  sign  of  religious 
movement  among  his  people.  Thus,  in  the  letter  just 
quoted,  he  tells  how  a  professor  "  in  public  lectures  had 
started  the  idea  that  Christ  never  existed."  He  tells  what 
followed.  The  next  Sunday  "  over  20,000  people  stood 
before  the  cathedral  and  the  palace,  hats  off,  singing 
Luther's  thundering  war-hymn,  '  Ein'  feste  Burg  ist  unser 
Gott,'  and  even  now  the  churches  are  crammed  by  people 
craving  to  hear  about  the  Saviour." 

He  longs  to  see  the  fire  of  religious  fervour  spreading 
among  the  people  through  a  strong  personal  grasp  on  what 
was  once  called  experimental  religion.  He  will  do  all  he 
can  to  encourage  such  a  spirit. 

I  shall  do  everything  in  my  power  ...  to  fan 
the  flame  of  a  fire  of  which  the  Lord  Himself  said,  *'  I 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM 


285 


have  come  to  kindle  a  fire  upon  earth  "  ;  I  wish  it  was 
already  aflame.    (January  1914.) 

Alas  !  it  was  another  fire  which,  seven  months  later,  the 
Emperor  allowed  to  be  kindled  among  the  nations. 

Naturally,  in  the  light  of  present  events  the  Emperor's 
utterances  about  peace  will  prove  the  most  interesting  ;  and, 
as  a  fact,  the  subject  which  is  more  touched  upon  than 
any  other  in  these  letters  is  the  subject  of  peace.  It  will, 
perhaps,  set  forth  his  views  more  graphically  if  his  words  on 
this  question  are  placed  in  chronological  order.  I  propose 
to  quote  the  passages  selected  without  interpolating  any 
comment ;  thus  their  cumulative  value  will  be  best  felt. 

The  first  extract  bears  date  January  17,  1905  ;  it  is  as 
follows — 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  principles  laid  down  in 
the  Christmas  Evangile  are  not  well-respected  in  these 
latter  years,  and  that  we  are  still  far  from  Peace  on 
Earth  and  good  will  among  men.  If  one  has  till  now 
managed  to  assure  peace  to  one's  own  country,  one 
must  be  very  thankful  to  Providence,  and  pray  that  no 
one  else  may  arise  to  disturb  it  or  break  it,  and  do 
everything  in  one's  power  to  keep  one's  own  sheep 
from  flying  at  each  other  within  the  fold. 

The  second  touches  on  the  relations  between  Germany 
and  England  ;  its  date  is  December  27,  1906 — 

My  wishes  are  sincere  and  warm  for  you  and 
for  your  country  for  1907.  Quod  bonum,  felix, 
faustumque  sit  populis  Anglicis  et  Germanicis. 


286        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


The  next  1  give  deals  with  the  difficulties  which  beset 
diplomatists  in  191 3,  the  year  before  the  war  broke  out. 
The  date  is  January  5,  1913 — 

I  need  not  assure  you  that  I  am  working  with  the 
utmost  energy  to  try  and  secure  Peace  for  the  world. 
The  task  is  arduous  and  necessitates  patience,  as  the 
Powers,  though  in  principle  are  all  agreed  to  preserve 
Peace,  yet  some  of  them  have  their  back  thoughts  and 
clandestine  ambitions  not  always  in  harmony  with 
peaceful  issue.  However  that  may  be,  I  don't  despair, 
feeling  as  I  do  that  I  am  working  at  the  bidding  of  a 
Higher  Power,  who  said,  "  Be  ye  content  with  My 
grace  ;  My  power  is  strong  in  the  weak  :  "  and  as  my 
work  is  for  the  good  of  mankind. 

My  last  interview  with  him  was  in  June  19 13.  I  went 
to  Berlin  to  offer  him  a  congratulatory  address  on  the 
twenty-fifth  year  of  his  accession.  The  Archbishop  was 
unable  to  go,  and  by  his  wish  I  was  invited  to  accompany 
the  deputation,  which  represented  an  Alliance  of  Christian 
Churches  on  behalf  of  friendly  relations  between  the  two 
countries.  They  were  busy  days.  Berlin  was  crowded  ; 
the  length  of  the  Unter  den  Linden  was  brave  with  banners 
and  flags  ;  happy-faced  people  jostled  one  anoj:her  in  friendly 
fashion  on  the  pavement ;  gay  uniforms  flitted  about  the 
streets.  There  was  a  State  performance  at  the  Royal  Opera 
House  ;  the  house  was  brilliant  with  flowers  ;  festoons  of 
green  and  pink  flowers  adorned  the  upper  galleries  ;  the 
lower  gallery  was  gorgeous  with  rich  red  flowers,  which  rose 
into  a  bank  in  front  of  the  Emperor's  seat.  The  perform- 
ance was  one  act  out  of  Lohengrin  ;  after  the  performance 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM  287 


there  was  a  reception  at  which  I  met  many  friends.  It  is 
sad  to  recall  them  now,  as,  perhaps,  never  again  in  this  world 
shall  we  meet.  I  had  no  word  with  the  Emperor  that  night, 
but  on  the  Monday  after  the  State  banquet  in  the  Weisegaal, 
the  Emperor  sent  for  me.  He  was  quite  cordial,  but  he 
spoke  with  a  note  which  was  new  to  me  ;  it  was  no  longer 
the  note  of  hope  and  joyous  anticipation  ;  he  seemed  to  me 
to  be  apprehensive  ;  he  spoke  of  the  dangerous  position  in 
which  Germany  v/as  placed  between  two  powers  which  under- 
stood one  another  and  might  prove  hostile.  When  I  left 
him,  I  felt  that  the  Emperor  was  under  the  influence  of  a 
great  fear.  "  He  is  changed,"  I  said  to  myself.  1  was  afraid  ; 
for  I  knew  that  there  was  no  passion  so  cruel  as  fear. 
Fear  blinds  the  judgment  and  hardens  the  heart.  "  Their 
eyes  will  be  blinded  through  the  fear  of  their  hearts,"  wrote 
an  ancient  seer  (Enoch  xlix.  8,  9).  It  was  a  curious  ex- 
perience after  the  words  of  hope  which  had  been  uttered  in 
addresses  presented  to  the  Emperor  from  various  bodies. 
Most  of  them  cherished  the  dream  of  a  peaceful  Europe,  and 
regarded  the  Emperor's  influence  as  a  factor  powerful  to 
secure  it. 

We  left  Berlin,  our  memory  of  it  as  of  a  bright,  happy 
and  hopeful  city  ;  its  citizens  thriving  and  vying  with  each 
other  in  their  loyalty  to  the  Emperor.  I  may  never  set  foot 
in  it  again,  but  I  hope  to  live  till  the  day  when  the  victorious 
armies  of  the  Allies  pass  under  the  Brandenburg  gate, 
and  make  plain  to  the  German  people  by  a  triumphal 
march  through  the  Unter  den  Linden  that  the  days  of 
Prussian  militarism  and  Prussian  domination  and  Teutonic 
treachery  are  at  an  end. 


288        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


In  conclusion  I  can  only  say  that  it  is  hard  to  write  when 
one's  heart  is  sore  with  the  sense  of  bitter  disappointment. 
It  is  perhaps  impossible  to  write  with  absolute  justice  of  any 
of  our  acquaintances.  There  is  such  a  large  area  of  the  soul 
of  man  which  lies  concealed  from  all  but  God.  Neverthe- 
less, I  may  be  allowed  to  set  down  my  thoughts,  I  hope, 
without  prejudice,  and  certainly  without  malice.  My 
thoughts,  if  I  let  my  heart  speak,  would  run  in  this  fashion. 
I  knew  him  ;  I  thought  I  knew  him  well  ;  he  was  so  frank 
in  speech  and  manner  that  it  was  natural  to  believe  that  he 
spoke  from  the  sincere  emotions  of  the  moment.  I  knew 
him,  and  1  had  learned  to  feel  for  him  a  deep  and  genuine 
affection.  So  free  and  unrestrained  had  been  our  intercourse, 
and  so  ready  was  he  to  respond  to  one's  best  and  inmost 
thoughts  that  there  was  nothing  about  which  I  should  have 
hesitated  to  speak.  He  sent  for  me  to  speak  with  him  as 
opportunity  arose  ;  he  often  wrote  to  me,  and  his  letters 
covered  a  large  range  of  subjects  —  from  some  discovery 
throwing  light  on  Biblical  archasology  to  a  new  book  on 
Kant's  philosophy  ;  from  a  new  process  in  photography  to 
questions  of  European  peace  ;  from  a  happy  family  event 
to  the  significance  of  certain  aspects  of  spiritual  experience. 
He  wrote  to  me  often  ;  his  letters  and  telegrams  treat  of  a 
variety  of  subjects;  they  create — I  think  that  they  would 
do  so  in  the  mind  of  any  impartial  reader — they  create  an 
impression  of  absolute  sincerity  ;  they  negative  the  idea  of 
being  letters  written  to  lull  suspicion  or  to  conceal  some 
sinister  purpose.  Briefly,  I  knew  him,  and  I  had  learned  to 
love  him  well.  I  saw  him  as  the  emperor  of  a  great  and 
prosperous  people,  devoted  and  rightly  devoted  to  their 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM  289 


welfare  ;  he  was  alive  to  his  duties  to  his  own  country  and 
keen  to  discharge  those  duties  well.  He  was  nevertheless, 
in  spite  of  his  sense  of  Teutonic  responsibility,  happy  when 
chance  brought  him  within  the  congenial  atmosphere  of 
English  life.  He  found  a  genuine  pleasure  in  being  on 
English  soil,  in  meeting  English  friends,  and  in  follow- 
ing English  ways.  It  seemed  as  though  then  the  spirit  of 
his  English  ancestry  woke  and  he  felt  a  strong  home  feeling 
when  he  breathed  English  air.  Then  the  ideals  consonant 
with  such  surroundings  rose  before  him  as  the  noblest,  the 
purest,  the  best.  And  those  ideals  were  not  those  of  war 
and  conquest,  but  of  a  friendship  which,  made  strong  by 
kinship  in  blood  and  faith,  might  work  for  the  maintenance 
of  European  peace  and  for  the  general  good  of  mankind. 
Nor  ought  it  to  be  forgotten  that  in  coming  over  to  England 
when  the  monument  to  Queen  Victoria  was  unveiled  he 
encountered  a  strong  adverse  current  of  German  opinion. 
By  paying  this  homage  of  affection  to  the  grandmother 
whom  he  loved  and  the  empress-queen  whom  he  honoured 
and  admired,  he  risked  his  popularity  in  his  own  country. 

But  these  were  not  the  only  influences  at  work.  There 
was  always  the  steadily  applied  power  of  the  military  party — 
strong  and  increasing  in  strength  through  the  foolish  pride 
of  the  Prussian  aristocracy,  who  knew  no  occupation  worthy 
of  their  sons  save  that  in  the  army.  There  was  the  ready 
intrigue  of  those  officials  who  sought  to  force  the  Emperor's 
hand  by  occasionally  contriving  to  make  him  unpopular  by 
representing  him  as  too  much  the  friend  of  England  ;  there 
was  the  resentment  of  the  populace  at  some  diplomatic 

failure,  as  the  Morocco  fiasco  ;  there  was  the  sinister  influence 
u 


290        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


of  the  irresponsible  Crown  Prince,  who  sought  to  make  up 
by  partisan  popularity  what  he  lacked  in  capacity  and 
character,  and  there  was  the  growing  apprehension,  carefully 
fostered  by  the  war  party,  that  dangerously  hostile  peoples 
were  vigilant  and  menacing  the  flanks  of  the  empire  ;  there 
was  the  dream  of  conspicuous  conquests,  which  might  carry 
Germany  to  the  pinnacle  of  world-greatness,  and  lift  its 
emperor  to  a  throne  loftier  than  any  of  which  Bismarck 
dreamed.  It  is  possible  for  the  human  soul  to  cherish  con- 
tradictory dreams,  and  to  feel  the  influence  of  inconsistent 
ideals.  Every  man's  character  is  ultimately  the  resultant  of 
a  contest  between  a  lower  and  a  higher  spirit.  This  fact, 
which  is  so  often  forgotten,  explains  why  it  is  that  men  are 
often  such  mysteries  to  one  another.  We  are  compelled, 
when  we  consider  the  story  of  any  great  or  conspicuous 
personage,  to  acknowledge  that  a  clear  and  full  understand- 
ing of  him  is  beyond  us.  It  is,  perhaps,  not  too  much  to  say 
that  we  must  leave  such  among  the  unsolved  enigmas  of 
history. 

One  thing  I  would  deprecate — the  spirit  which  dresses 
up  a  character  only  in  one  suit  of  clothes.  The  lesser 
dramatists  have  sometimes  given  us  their  hero  in  this  fashion. 
There  is  no  change  of  suit.  Tamerlane  is  always  resolute 
to  have  might  and  to  use  it  :  he  knows  no  hesitation.  We 
say  he  is  a  strong  character — yes,  but  is  he  a  character  at 
all  ?  Is  he  not  rather  an  embodied  representation  of  one 
quality  only  ?  Human  beings  are  medleys  as  a  rule.  The 
cruel  man  is  kindly  at  times  :  the  strong  man  has  his  weak- 
nesses, and  the  weak  man  his  times  of  strength.  To  picture 
a  man  as  Mephistopheles,  set  on  evil  and  deliberately  mask- 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM  291 


ing  his  unswerving  purpose  of  evil  by  a  show  of  good  or  of 
religion,  is  not  to  draw  a  human  being  but  a  devil.  In  all 
of  us  there  is  an  admixture  of  good  and  evil.  Our  dreams 
are  sometimes  of  being  really  very  good — kind,  generous, 
humble,  active  in  service  and  patient  in  suffering.  At  other 
times  the  desire  of  some  material  gain  will  seize  upon  us, 
and  we  become  mean  and  hard.  Sometimes  the  vision  of 
a  generous  life  is  ours,  at  other  times  the  wish  to  die  rich 
masters  us.  Our  course  is  being  constantly  deflected  from 
its  true  orbit  by  external  influences  ;  but  more  than  this 
may  be  the  case.  We  may  form  rival  and  contradictory 
ideals,  and  according  to  our  mood  both  may  in  turn  assert 
their  supremacy  over  us. 

With  these  facts  in  mind  I  can  well  imagine  that,  to  a 
man  in  the  Emperor's  position  and  with  his  sensitive  tem- 
perament, the  ideal  of  living  and  dying  as  the  monarch  who 
had  preserved  peace  to  the  world  may  well  have  seemed 
to  him  at  times  the  desirable  thing,  and  that  often  this 
ambition  ruled  his  policy  and  his  action.  This  is  no  idle 
speculation  :  official  correspondence  confirms  the  view  by 
telling  us  that  the  Emperor's  disposition  was  towards  peace. 
As  examples  we  may  take  the  following — 

Lieut.-Col.  Serret  (Military  Attach^  to  the  French  Em- 
bassy at  Berlin)  writes,  on  March  15,  1913  :  "Germans 
wish  for  peace — so  they  keep  on  proclaiming,  and  the 
Emperor  more  than  any  one."  ^  The  Emperor's  declara- 
tions were  regarded  by  the  French  officials  as  genuine. 
M.  Stephen  Pichon  (Foreign  Minister)  received  a  confi- 
^  Diplomatic  Correspondence  published  by  the  French  Government, 
P-  4- 


292        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


dential  report,  dated  July  30,  19 13,  in  which  twice  over 
the  Emperor's  influence  is  spoken  of  as  a  force  in  favour  of 
peace — the  Emperor's  "  pacific  disposition,"  the  "  will  of 
the  Emperor,"  are  referred  to  in  the  dispatch,  and  it  is 
concluded  that  Germany  will  not  declare  war  in  view  of 
defensive  alliances  and  the  "  tendencies  of  the  Emperor,"  ^ 
And  in  the  letter  from  M.  Jules  Cambon  (French  ambas- 
sador at  Berlin,  November  22,  1913),  in  which  he  says  the 
Emperor  is  no  longer  the  friend  of  peace,  he  comments 
on  the  change  as  being  a  surprise,  since  all  the  world 
thought  that  the  Emperor,  "  whose  personal  influence  had 
been  exerted  on  many  critical  occasions  in  support  of  peace, 
was  still  in  the  same  state  of  mind."  ^  There  is  evidence 
in  the  diplomatic  view  of  things  that  the  Emperor  had, 
in  practical  action,  followed  the  ideals  of  peace. 

But  it  is  quite  consistent  with  the  existence  of  this  ideal 
that  other  visions  less  worthy  may  have,  at  times,  flashed 
before  his  mind  :  the  man  who  sees  the  vision  of  handing 
down  to  posterity  his  name  as  a  Peace-making  and  Peace- 
keeping sovereign  may,  at  times,  dream  of  the  dazzling 
glory  of  conquest,  or  of  making  his  country  a  praise  in  the 
earth.  And  there  were  not  wanting  influences  which  made 
such  a  dream  attractive,  or  which,  at  times,  seemed  to  coerce 
him  to  play  the  role  of  war  king,  and  to  rattle  the  sabre  to 
please  the  pride  of  the  nation.  The  Berlin  Foreign  Office 
was  not  above  unworthy  intrigues  to  force  the  Emperor  to 
seek  popularity  or  avoid  public  resentment  by  posing  as 

1  Diplomatic  Correspondence  published  by  the  French  Government, 
pp.  16,  17,  and  20. 

^  Ibid.,  p.  21;  cf.  also  p.  22. 


THE  EMPEROR  WILLIAM  293 


war  lord  rather  than  as  peace-loving  monarch.  The  mili- 
tary party  were  ready  to  work  upon  his  fears  and  to  flatter 
him  with  cheap  prophecies  of  success  :  the  shallow  popu- 
larity of  the  Crown  Prince,  who  "  flattered  the  passions  of 
the  Pan-Germans,"  who  was  the  victim  of  foolish  and 
unreflecting  ambitions,  and  who,  having  lost  the  respect  of 
the  worthy,  desired  to  rehabilitate  his  forfeited  reputation 
by  appearing  as  the  champion  of  his  country's  greatness, 
may  have  awakened  a  natural  jealousy,  which  might  provoke 
the  wish  to  prove  his  own  energetic  patriotism. 

These  influences  cannot  have  been  without  effect  upon 
a  man  of  his  "  impressionable  nature."  Their  combined 
force  may  well  have  put  new  and  attractive  colouring  into 
the  vision  of  lower  glory  which  arose  in  competition  with 
the  nobler  dream  of  peace.  That  nobler  dream  appealed  to 
his  best  nature  ;  it  was  strongest  in  him  when  he  was  upon 
British  soil,  and  when  the  British  ideals  were  clearer  in  his 
mind,  or  when  the  inner  claims  of  religion  were  making 
themselves  felt,  and  the  vision  of  a  world  won  by  Christ 
rose  before  his  soul. 

In  the  end  the  power  of  the  lower  vision  prevailed : 
mixed  motives  and  varied  influences  gave  it  potency.  A 
mistaken  patriotism,  mingled  with  an  unworthy  jealousy, 
and  driven  into  activity  under  the  pressure  of  a  genuine  fear 
of  the  growing  power  of  the  nations  on  both  flanks,  led  him 
to  surrender  his  best  principles  of  action  to  the  unhappy 
opportunism  which  was  preached,  in  season  and  out  of  season, 
by  a  restless  military  party  and  by  a  disloyal  and  unscrupulous 
Foreign  Office. 

The  parting  of  the  ways  came  and  he  chose  the  lower 


294        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


path,  and  commenced  that  downward  career  which  was  the 
sorrow  of  his  friends  and  will  be  the  overthrow  of  that 
empire  which  his  grandfather  and  Bismarck  built  up  with 
such  care. 

And  this  is  the  pity  of  it  all  :  he  might  have  been  so 
great.  He  might  have  left  to  history  the  record  of  a  reign 
which  had  done  good  to  the  world,  and  at  the  same  time 
conferred  glory  and  prosperity  on  his  own  country  ;  but 
now  for  all  time  he  will  be  known  as  the  man  who  was 
chiefly  responsible  for  the  wickedest  war  ever  waged,  for  the 
awful  carnage,  for  the  world-wide  sorrow,  and  for  the  sad 
alienation  of  hearts  which  it  has  brought  in  its  train.  For 
one  fact  stands  out  clear  and  certain  to  all  who  read  the 
official  correspondence  :  a  word  from  the  Emperor  in  those 
critical  July  and  August  days  of  19 14  would  have  made 
war  impossible,  and  that  word  was  not  spoken. 


THE  GREATER  FRIENDSHIP 


I  WONDER  whether  [  can  tell  the  story  of  a  wonderful 
friendship  which  has  been  mine,  and  which  lies,  like  the 
scenery  of  the  stage,  unchanged,  behind  the  busy  activities 
and  entrances  and  exits  of  the  actors.  It  has  been  like  the 
sky,  which  is  always  there,  no  matter  what  scenes  have  been 
enacted  below.  It  has  been  like  my  own  identity — some- 
thing which  is  the  same,  whether  my  years  were  few  or 
many.  I  can  hardly  tell  when  it  began,  but  it  must  have 
been  when  I  was  very  young  that  I  first  became  aware  of 
this  friendship — not  that  I  called  it  or  could  have  called 
it  friendship,  for  1  was  too  young  to  know  what  friendship 
meant  ;  but  nevertheless  early,  very  early,  the  feeling  of 
a  comradeship  to  which  I  might  turn  came  to  me. 

One  of  the  tests  of  friendship  is  the  power  to  with- 
draw one's  presence  at  fitting  times  :  to  be  sensitive  to  the 
inopportune  moments  of  life.  Herein  this  friend  showed 
his  true  friendliness  :  he  was  never  intrusive.  He  never 
spoke  of  his  friendship  :  he  was  never  eager  or  forward  to 
assert  it  :  he  never  put  forward  absurd  or  impossible  claims 
upon  my  attention  or  my  regard  :  he  was  dexterously  self- 
effacing. 

Can  I  ever  tell  the  story  of  this  marvel-working  friend- 
ship ?    There  are  associations  with  our  fellow-men  which 
we  sometimes  out  of  politeness  speak  of  as  friendships 
295 


296        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


— saying  with  an  odd  carelessness,  "  Oh  yes,  he  is  an 
old  friend  of  mine."  There  are  other  comradeships 
more  close  and  intimate,  allowing  of  confidences  in  hours 
of  perplexity,  when  long  experience  tells  us  we  can  trust 
the  companion  tried  through  many  years.  And  yet,  and 
yet,  is  there  in  these  friendships  no  neutral  ground — a 
territory  which  your  friend  can  never  enter  ?  There  are 
rooms  in  the  soul  to  which  such  friends  are  strangers.  Is 
it  not  so  ? 

But,  therefore,  all  the  more  I  wonder  whether  I  can 
tell  the  tale  of  a  friendship  which  passed  beyond  all  these, 
and  which  crowned  my  life  with  a  comradeship  which  grew 
into  a  friendship  and  which  surpassed  all  the  intimacies 
of  other  companionships.  As  I  contemplate  it  now  with 
seventy-five  years  of  life  behind  me,  I  am  filled  with  wonder 
at  the  way  this  friendship  grew.  I  did  not  seek  it.  I  might 
say  that  it  was  thrust  upon  me,  but  that  word  would  con- 
tradict the  reticence,  the  delicate  reserve,  which  marked  this 
friendship. 

"  Thine  own  friend  and  thy  father's  friend,  forsake 
not,"  wrote  the  wise  man  of  the  East,  and  as  I  look  back 
upon  this  friendship  which  so  gently  and  gradually  disclosed 
itself  to  me,  I  feel  that  though  it  was  always  personal  to 
me,  yet  that  it  was,  at  least  in  spirit,  an  inherited  friendship. 
It  came  with  a  kind  of  unspoken  assurance  that  it  was  no 
new  thing,  sprung  suddenly  upon  my  life  :  it  did  not  come 
with  one  of  those  violent  fascinations  which  create  a  fast 
and  furious  friendship  of  a  few  months,  and  end  in  the 
regret  of  confidences  given  and  secrets  told  which  had  been 
more  wisely  withheld.    It  came  as  a  thing  which  grew — 


THE  GREATER  FRIENDSHIP 


like  an  unnoticed  bit  of  rusty  green,  unrecognized  as  a 
flower,  developing  with  subtle  and  unobserved  quietness,  so 
that  though  not  welcomed  and  made  much  of,  it  yet  became 
so  much  a  thing  accepted  that,  had  it  gone,  it  would  have 
been  missed. 

And  one  feature  there  was  about  this  friendship  :  it  was 
not,  as  I  have  hinted,  intrusive,  but  it  was  always  there. 
It  was  like  an  unused  and  unappreciated  sea-wall,  which 
never  hears  its  praises  sung  but  which  stands  steadfast, 
reaching  its  protecting  arm  as  a  shelter  to  the  ships  which 
are  anchored  in  the  harbour. 

But  this  kind  of  image  is  too  passive  :  it  fails  to 
express  the  activity,  as  it  were,  of  this  wonderful  friend- 
ship ;  for  it  often  brought  me  unsought  help.  The  silent 
friend  who  had  joined  his  life  to  mine,  yet  never  intruded 
his  friendship,  seemed  sometimes  to  move  alongside  mc 
and  say,  "  You  need  me  now  :  1  am  here  to  help."  Look- 
ing back,  I  feel  that  this  was  always  his  tone  to  me,  but 
as  he  sweetly  left  me  unembarrassed  by  his  presence,  I  did 
not  always  realize  how  near  and  prompt  was  his  help. 
So  for  long  this  friendship  was  one  of  watchfulness  and 
readiness  for  service — a  friendship  which  was  ready  to  give 
and  asked  nothing  in  return. 

Who,  looking  back  upon  his  life,  is  not  often  ashamed 
to  recall  how  eagerly  the  friends  of  the  passing  hour  were 
welcomed  and  feted,  while  the  dear  old  friend,  whose 
features  had  grown  so  familiar  that  we  thought  no  more 
of  his  presence  than  we  did  of  the  clock  on  the  mantel- 
piece, or  the  hatstand  in  the  hall,  has  been  left  ungreeted, 
and  has  taken  no  ofFence,  but  has  mingled  among  the 


298        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


guests,  doing  to  one  and  another  some  little  service  which 
we  as  hosts  had  omitted. 

Friendship  !  Yes,  we  often  measure  it  by  the  gay- 
hours  of  laughter  which  we  have  spent  together.  The 
little  cosy  dinner  at  some  choice  restaurant,  followed  by 
the  two  or  three  hours  at  the  play  when  we  felt  drawn 
towards  one  another  by  the  physical  comfort  and  pleasant 
enjoyment  of  the  passing  hour.  But  these  things  do  not 
fill  the  requirements  of  our  hearts  when  we  think  of 
friendship.  We  know  other  moods  than  those  which  smiling 
hours  bring  us.  What  about  the  hours  when  we  take 
ourselves  to  task,  and  though  we  would  fain  shake  off 
the  troublesome  power  within  which  tells  us  that  we  have 
fallen  below  ourselves  What  friend  comes  to  us  in  such 
hours  and  what  would  he  say  Do  we  want  some 
one  who  bids  us  give  no  heed  to  the  voice  of  self-reproach  ? 

0  !  yes,  we  often  listen  to  such  friends,  and  we  are  inclined 
to  accept  their  oracular  sedatives  ;  but  when  they  are  gone, 
and  we  are  again  alone,  do  we  not  know  that  we  repudiate 
their  counsel 

Here,  again,  was  the  wonder  of  that  friendship.  Silent 
and  near  at  hand,  the  friend  who  never  intruded  upon  my 
privacy,  seemed  to  me  to  judge  of  matters  concerning 
which  my  heart  was  in  debate.    He  spoke  no  word,  but 

1  knew  that  he  could  not  speak  flattering  words,  and  still 
less  words  of  untruth.  So  from  his  very  silence  there 
would  come  counsel,  and  I  knew  that,  unlike  lighthearted 
friends,  he  believed  in  me,  and  in  the  greatness  of  the 
future  which  awaited  me,  after  a  fashion  which  to  other 
friends  was  impossible. 


THE  GREATER  FRIENDSHIP  299 


How  weak  and  foolish  we  sometimes  are  in  our  inter- 
course with  one  another !  we  seek  to  please  when  we 
should  seek  to  help.  The  baser  self  prompts  us  to  accept 
the  words  which  give  pleasure  ;  but  I  think  in  our  hearts 
we  often  long  for  the  words  which  will  help,  even  though 
they  do  not  please  us.  So  as  I  try  to  measure  this  great 
friendship  of  my  life,  I  know  that  this  quiet,  self-repressive 
friend  never  fell  into  the  weakness  which  sought  only  to 
please.  His  grave  face  and  silent  lips  would  often  pass 
on  to  me  the  message  of  true  helpfulness  ;  and  before  me 
would  rise  the  vision  of  some  nobler  thing  before  which 
all  base  things  were  condemned. 

There  came  a  time  when  my  heart  asked  more  of  this 
quiet  friend.  I  felt  that  I  wanted  this  friendship  to  become 
one  of  closer  confidence.  Was  it  always  to  be  a  silent 
friendship  ?  If  the  present  footing  of  friendship  was  to  be 
changed  for  one  of  friendly  converse,  which  of  us  was  to 
begin  it  ?  Hitherto  I  had  been  heedless  and  he  had  been 
silent.  Should  I  break  the  silence  or  would  he  .''  Even 
if  I  began  :  would  he  respond  .''  So  I  abode  in  doubt,  for, 
let  me  confess  it,  a  certain  awe  possessed  me.  His  very 
silence,  his  unobtrusive  watchful  presence,  filled  me  with 
a  sense  of  his  greatness ;  and  awe  kept  me  silent. 

But  this  could  not  continue.  We  had  reached  a  stage 
of  comradeship  when  more  was  wanted  ;  and  for  this  my 
heart  began  to  hunger.  I  made  some  fugitive  efforts  to 
cultivate  converse  ;  and  there  were  moments  on  the  road 
of  life  when  in  low  tones  he  would  speak  wonderful  things ; 
and  as  he  spoke  I  saw  how  life  opened  the  possibility  of 
greater  things.    And  I  think  that  it  was  his  converse  which 


300       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


led  mc  to  tread,  not  the  path  I  had  marked  out  for  my- 
self, but  another,  which  in  the  years  before  I  had  never 
contemplated.  He  said  to  nie,  "  There  is  a  path  which 
can  gratify  desire,  but  there  is  a  path  in  which  you  can 
be  helpful  ;  the  choice  is  before  you,  and  the  choice  must 
be  your  own."  And  so  it  came  to  pass,  chiefly,  I  think, 
because  I  feared  to  tread  the  path  of  my  desire,  I  chose 
the  path  he  spoke  of  ;  for  I  had  learned  to  trust  him, 
and  I  did  not  trust  myself.  Thus  the  whole  scope  and 
prospect  of  my  life  was  changed,  I  cannot  say  that  any 
new  enthusiasm  possessed  me  for  the  path  which  was  then 
chosen.  It  was  perhaps  a  dread  of  following  my  own  wish, 
a  fear  lest  I  should  be  swallowed  up  in  the  lower  ambitions 
of  life  :  it  was  a  choice  made  by  my  will  under  the  influence 
of  the  will  of  a  friend  whom  I  had  learned  to  trust, 
and  whose  friendship  was  becoming  more  distinctly  personal 
to  me. 

And  about  this  time  I  can  trace  a  real  intercourse 
between  this  strange,  silent  friend  and  myself.  I  would  let 
loose  the  thoughts  and  emotions  of  my  heart  to  him  :  I  was 
filled  with  the  persuasion  of  his  sympathy.  Thus,  though 
our  comradeship  was  still  that  of  two  silent  friends,  yet 
there  were  occasions  on  which  I  was  constrained  to  break 
the  silence,  for  my  desires  were  for  a  companionship  in 
which  no  reserves  were  practised.  I  was  drawn  more  and 
more  to  him,  and  often  I  was  led  to  think  that  he  held 
aloof  from  me.  Thus,  though  at  first  this  friend  came  to 
me  as  a  comrade  when  I  had  not  sought  him,  so  now  the 
positions  seemed  to  be  reversed  :  I  was  minded  to  seek  him, 
and  he  did  not  seek'me. 


THE  GREATER  FRIENDSHIP  301 


But  let  it  be  understood  that  this  feeling  that  he  held 
himself  aloof  did  not  make  me  doubt  the  stability  of  his 
comradeship.  Still  he  was  constantly  at  my  side  :  still, 
whenever  I  was  confronted  by  difficulty,  or  exposed  to 
conflict  of  any  sort,  he  was  at  hand  :  still  he,  by  some 
quiet  gesture  or  by  some  whispered  word,  gave  me  counsel. 
So,  with  a  growing  expectation  of  his  guidance,  and  a  grow- 
ing distrust,  perhaps,  of  my  own  judgment,  I  lived,  taking 
life  as  it  came  from  day  to  day. 

Round  me  there  were  snares — snares  of  which  men 
freely  spoke,  though  not  always  speaking  of  them  as  snares  ; 
and  as  I  look  back,  I  almost  wonder  that  I  escaped  them  ; 
for  there  was  that  in  me  which  might  readily  have  taken 
fire,  and  so  have  caused  me  to  fall  a  victim  to  such  snares  ; 
yet  the  protecting  comradeship  of  this  friend  was  a  shield 
against  such  dangers,  and  this  comradeship,  joined  to  a 
happy  ignorance  on  my  part,  and  to  a  worshipfulness  of 
love  which  I  had  learned  from  another,  set  an  atmosphere 
around  me  which  had  a  power  to  quench  all  outside  flame. 
Thus  I  passed  unscathed  through  dangerous  days. 

Then  love  herself  came  to  me  in  bright  and  youthful 
guise  ;  but  new  companionship,  and  hours  of  dear  and 
novel  friendship,  made  no  difi^erence  to  the  old  friendship. 
The  old  comrade  still  journeyed  with  me.  As  before, 
ready  to  help,  to  suggest,  to  counsel  and  to  protect.  Here 
I  met  with  some  of  the  kindest  encouragement  from  him  : 
here  I  learned  from  both  his  silence  and  his  speech  to  rely 
upon  him  as  I  had  never  done  before  ;  for,  in  these  days,  the 
little  bark  of  my  life  was  richly  laden,  and  I  might  well  fear 
disaster  from  stormy  seas.    Often  my  heart  sank  at  the 


302        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


prospect  of  some  tempest.  My  soul  misgave  me,  as  I  asked 
whether  I  could  hope  to  bring  such  argosies  to  port.  Then 
came  days  in  which  fortune  seemed  to  beckon  me,  and  I  was 
tempted  eagerly  to  go  forward  at  her  bidding.  Yes,  there 
were  times  in  which  I  might  well  have  sought  the  help  of 
less  worthy  friends,  and  followed  counsels  which,  though 
not  dishonourable,  were  yet  such  as  would  have  affronted 
my  self-respect.  Pleadings  to  act  with  common  sense  or 
ordinary  worldly  prudence  gave  strength  to  the  temptation 
to  follow  such  counsels  ;  but  ever  as  I  turned  and  looked 
into  the  face  of  my  long-tried  comrade  and  read  in  his  calm 
and  sober  aspect  his  message  of  quiet  confidence,  I  let  all 
lesser  and  lower  counsels  pass  by  me.  I  judged  that  I  was 
happier,  safer  and  wiser,  in  cleaving  to  his  unspoken 
guidance.  Thus  again,  as  I  look  back,  1  see  that  this  dear, 
faithful,  comrade-friend  saved  me  by  his  wisdom  from  lines 
of  conduct  which  might  have  planted  the  bitterness  of  self- 
reproach  in  the  midst  of  success. 

I  chronicle  the  tale  of  this  friendship,  and  I  do  so  in  the 
hope  that  it  will  make  plain  the  truth  that  this  friend  was 
truer  to  me  than  those  who  would  have  flattered  me  more, 
or  measured  out  their  counsel  by  my  wishes  or  even  my 
interests.  Here  was  the  great  difference  between  him  and 
others  who  were  kind,  that  he  always  thought  of  what 
would  lead  me  to  take  the  higher  path  :  he  always  thought 
of  that  which  would  make  me  better  rather  than  that  which 
would  better  my  fortune.  For  this  reason  my  confidence 
in  him  was  never  shaken — no,  not  even  when  the  path  he 
pointed  out  was  the  path  of  disappointment.  Well  I  can 
see  now  that  he,  out  of  wisdom  and  kindness — yes,  and 


THE  GREATER  FRIENDSHIP 


justice  too — withheld  me  from  things  which  perhaps  my 
ambition  and  perhaps  my  indolence  desired.  It  was  as 
though  he  always  said  "  God's  providence  is  best,  and  if  the 
fear  of  Him  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom,  trust  in  Him  is 
the  path  of  peace."  Thus  this  friend  was  sober  mentor  to 
me  ;  and  so  much  so,  that  I  longed  for  freer  intercourse 
with  him,  knowing  well  that  his  counsels  were  strength, 
but  ever  wishing  some  deep  sympathy,  as  well  as  counsel, 
from  him.  I  think  this  came,  or  rather  that  some  hint  of  it 
came,  at  a  later  time,  when  I  stood  in  sore  need  of  help. 
A  great  and  desolating  sorrow  came  upon  me  :  the  storm  of 
it  swept  from  my  embrace  the  dearest  thing  that  was  mine,  I 
had  to  steel  myself  against  over-much  indulgence  in  sorrow, 
and  some  said,  "  He  is  forgetting  his  grief."  What  could 
they  know  How  could  they  know  the  deep,  unspoken 
pain  of  my  lonely  spirit  then  "  Why,  O  my  heart,  do  you 
not  break  "  I  had  asked  myself,  speaking  to  the  poor 
beating,  bruised  and  fluttering  heart.  Hard  to  bear  was  the 
cruel  bruising  of  my  benumbed  and  grief-stricken  heart. 
So,  hearing  of  this  thought  of  those  who  did  not  know, 
but  who  guessed  that  I  was  getting  over  the  loss,  when  it  was 
still  but  three  months  raw,  I  wrote,  that  "  my  heart  seemed 
to  me  one  petrified  agony  :  mine,"  I  said,  "  is  not  sorrow, 
it  is  just  suffering,  suffering."  Outward  tears  I  could  not 
shed,  but  the  tears  fell  inward,  filling  with  bitterness  the 
myriad  voids  in  my  bruised  heart.  Yet  against  the  flaming 
grief  I  had  to  struggle,  and  to  cry  to  the  storm  voices  of  my 
sorrow,  "  Peace,  peace,"  for  the  sake  of  duty  and  of  others 
who  were  dear. 

In  those  days  I  went  about  stricken  with  deafness.  The 


304       FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


shock  of  grief  had  smitten  my  hearing.  I  walked  the 
streets  :  I  saw  the  noisy  carts'  and  rattling  cabs  in  their 
courses,  but  I  moved  in  a  silence  which  might  be  felt.  It 
was  in  these  days  that  there  came  to  me  the  melody  which 
I  heard  and  in  which  I  found  sympathy  and  comfort.  My 
friend  still  silently  kept  companionship  with  me  :  his  foot- 
steps, no  doubt,  were  beside  me,  though  I  heard  them  or 
heeded  them  not.  But  then  I  heard,  as  the  deaf  may  hear, 
music  more  sweet  than  unstopped  ears  can  hear.  I  was  in 
the  noisy  roadway,  one  of  the  great  open  thoroughfares  of 
London,  when  I  heard  it,  clear  and  strong  at  first,  then  clear 
and  sweet  as  the  voice  of  a  glad  soul  singing.  Did  my 
friend  say  "  Listen  "  Somehow  it  seemed  to  me  that  his 
friendship  bade  me  hearken,  and  then  upon  my  ears,  closed 
to  the  sounds  of  earth,  there  stole  heavenly  music — first  as 
a  glorious  choir,  and  then  as  of  a  single  happy  voice.  I 
heard :  I  listened,  transported  :  I  knew  the  voice.  Had  I 
not  heard  it  often  during  years  of  sweet  fellowship  The 
grave  could  not  silence  that  voice,  and  I,  deaf  to  earth's 
sounds,  heard  it  clear,  though  the  roar  of  the  traffic  must 
have  been  rolling  round  me.  Then  I  knew  that  it  was 
given  to  me  to  hear  this  clear  singing,  so  that  my  stricken 
heart  might  have  some  message  of  assurance.  Thus,  in 
spite  of  grief,  restless,  imperious  grief,  there  came  into  my 
heart  the  sign  of  peace,  because  I  had  seemed  to  hear  that 
dear  voice  uplifted  among  angel  voices.  I  think  that  my 
quiet  comrade  so  wrought  upon  me  that  I  was  able  to  hear 
this  music  and  to  accept  its  sweet  assurance. 

When  I  looked  upon  him  his  face  was  still  grave,  almost 
impressive,  and  yet  I  seemed  to  catch  in  it  some  marks  of 


THE  AUTHOR 
(From  a  photograph  by  Lafayette) 


THE  GREATER  FRIENDSHIP  305 


lingering  emotion,  as  of  one  whose  heart  rested  content  in 
some  kindness  done.  Often,  often  did  I  speak  to  him  in 
those  days  of  my  sorrow  ;  my  mourning  found  incessant 
utterance,  and  pleaded  with  him  for  some  sympathetic  help. 
Many  perplexities  attended  my  life  at  that  time.  I  was 
like  one  who  had  to  draw  forth  into  power  of  use  a  sadly- 
entangled  ball  of  string — who  makes  some  vigorous  and 
thoughtless  effort,  draws  forth  a  clear  portion,  only  to  find 
that  he  has  drawn  the  meshes  tighter  together. 

And  my  friend  ?  He  might  have  looked  at  me  with 
good-natured,  half-cynical  amusement  as  he  marked  my 
efforts  ;  but  never  once  did  a  smile  of  contempt  or  con- 
scious superiority  cross  his  face.  Still,  as  always,  his 
countenance  was  one  of  kindly  gravity  and  his  air  that 
of  one  who  waited  ready  to  help. 

And  in  the  end,  it  was  he  who  unravelled  and  straight- 
ened out  the  tangle  of  my  life,  and  made  it  possible  for  me 
to  weave  its  thread  for  some  new  pattern.  Where  I  would 
have  gone,  he  kept  me  from  going  ;  and  he  held  me  wait- 
ing till  the  right  and  clear  path  opened.  He  thrust  aside 
a  difficulty  here,  and  met  obstacles  and  removed  them. 
When  I  encountered  more  than  one  serious  hindrance, 
which  for  a  moment  seemed  menacing,  he  counselled  a 
quiet  trust  on  my  part,  and  he  was  justified.  Others  came 
forward,  took  up  the  difficulty,  removed  its  menace,  finding 
a  simple  and  natural  solution.  My  friend  became  the 
clearer  away  of  difficulties,  and  always  he  maintained  the 
same  peaceful  and  calm  face,  which  bore  with  it  an  ever- 
present  counsel  of  calmness  to  me. 

Thus,  by  degrees,  there  came  into  my  life  quiet  and 

X 


3o6        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


refreshment,  and  love  began  to  sing  in  my  home  once 
more.  And  he,  my  lifelong  friend,  was  as  before,  the 
unfailing  comrade  of  my  hours  of  restored  gladness,  as  he 
had  been  in  hours  of  stress  and  sorrow  and  storm.  Ever 
his  counsel  was  :  "  Do  right,  and  trust.  Judge  nothing  by 
wishes  ;  judge  all  things  by  love  and  right."  And  always 
we  resolved  to  follow  his  bidding. 

Sometimes  it  was  hard,  and  life's  difficulties  appeared  to 
grow  more  bewildering  as  we  sought  to  put  right  first  ;  but 
the  value  of  right  cannot  be  tested  in  a  day.  It  takes  time 
to  prove  its  worth  and  its  power.  So  we  proved  it,  and  I 
think  that  this,  at  least,  my  faithful  friend  taught  me,  viz.  : 
that  he  who  struggles,  doing  right,  through  the  dark  and 
doubtful  day,  will  find  that  peace  comes  with  the  sundown, 
and  light  at  evening  time. 

It  is  said  that  if  two  live  or  work  together,  soon  one 
will  be  leader  or  master  and  the  other  follower  or  pupil. 
I  found  this  to  be  true  in  my  experience  of  this  friendship, 
for  more  and  more  it  came  to  pass  that  I  was  learner,  and 
he  teacher  or  master.  I  did  not  resent  this,  for  life  brings 
knowledge,  and  we  soon  find  that  it  is  well  to  have  some  one 
upon  whose  wisdom  we  can  rely,  and  whose  friendship 
secures  that  sympathy  will  work  hand  in  hand  with  judg- 
ment. Perhaps,  then,  the  best  lesson  I  learned  at  this  time 
from  this  happy  friendship  was  reliance  upon  the  providence 
of  God.  I  well  remember  that  in  this  period  of  my  life 
there  arose  a  prospect  of  my  being  moved  to  an  independent 
post — or  promotion  it  would  be  called  by  some.  There 
were  many  reasons  why  such  a  move    would  have  been 


THE  GREATER  FRIENDSHIP  307 


acceptable  to  me.  The  growing  family,  and.  a  feeling  that 
my  association  with  another  in  work  had  been  sufficiently 
long,  and  other  thoughts,  contributed  to  make  me  wishful 
for  change.  There  were  weeks  of  suspense,  but  my  friend 
had  taught  me  that  God's  providence  was  always  best.  In 
those  days  the  collect  for  the  eighth  Sunday  after  Trinity 
was  daily  used  by  me.  Before  I  opened  the  morniiig  letters 
I  read  or  repeated  the  collect.  On  the  day  which  brought 
the  decision  I  did  so.  I  saw  among  the  letters  the  letter 
which,  I  knew,  would  tell  me  the  verdict,  but  I  checked  my 
anxious  curiosity  :  I  read  the  wise  prayer.  I  opened  the 
letter.  The  verdict  was  against  my  wishes  and  hopes  ;  but 
the  sense  that  God  knew  best  beat  down  the  pain  of  dis- 
appointment. So  my  friend  had  become  strength  to  me, 
and  we  learned  to  look  to  his  guidance,  for  he  led  us  to 
God,  I  think. 

But  this  principle,  when  used  as  a  governing  principle 

of  life,  may  lead  to  much  perplexity.    The  questions, 

Where  does  God's  providence  lead  me  now  ?  and,  What 

course  does  that  providence  point  out  to  me     are  questions 

which  we  cannot  always  answer.    I  grant  it  frankly,  and  as 

completely  as  any  one  will  desire.    As  a  fact,  there  came  a 

time  when  we  were  anxious — yes,  I  may  say  resolved — to 

take  no  step  without  being  assured  that  it  was  allowed  or 

indicated  by  God's  providence.    The  old  saying,  that  he 

that  watches  providence  will  never  lack  a  providence  to 

watch,  or  the  old  Chester  house  motto,  "  God's  providence 

is  mine  inheritance,"  became  dominant  in  our  thoughts  ; 

and  when  I  turned  my  inquiring  face  to  the  wise  comrade- 
X  2 


3o8        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 


friend  who  still  walked  beside  me,  I  heard  his  voice  saying, 
"  When  you  see  no  right  thing  to  do,  do  nothing  :  wait." 
There  are  times  in  which  the  spirit  of  patient  waiting  is 
needed  in  life.  And  so,  in  much  anxiety,  and  pressed  often 
by  needs  and  bewildering  conditions,  I  had  to  live  by 
patience  for  many  days  ;  to  be  more  exact,  I  think  it  was 
for  some  four  or  five  years.  It  was  curious  to  watch  how, 
one  after  another,  the  conditions  of  life  changed,  and  slowly 
the  obstacles  which  seemed  to  bar  the  road  were  chased 
away,  and  at  last  the  path  opened  straight  before  me,  and 
with  its  opening  there  came  a  new  support  into  my  life. 
Even  then,  though  obstacles  disappeared,  difficulties  re- 
mained, and  life  called  for  patience — yet  more  patience  ; 
and  we,  who  had  home  and  many  affairs  to  manage,  found 
it  a  happy  thing  that  the  quiet  and  often  silent  comrade  of 
the  road  was  still  near  and  ready  to  advise.  Like  the 
husbandman,  we  have  to  wait  in  life  with  long  patience  for 
the  harvest  of  our  efforts  and  of  our  prayers,  and  ever  at 
my  side  the  friend  would  whisper,  "  Be  patient  :  in  due 
season  you  will  reap,  if  you  faint  not." 

How  true  in  thought  he  was — as  true  in  thought  as  he 
was  tender  in  sympathy.  How  true  in  thought  !  Though  all 
that  I  hoped  for  in  patience  is  not  yet  seen,  yet  I  have  seen  the 
flowers  grow  to  fulness  of  beauty  and  the  cornfields  ripen. 
I  saw  one  flower  which  grew  out  of  the  dust,  and  I  watched 
it  through  many  seasons,  and  my  grave  friend,  who  had 
taught  me  something  of  the  pricelessness  of  a  love  which 
can  wait  and  watch  with  silent  patience,  began  to  look  at 
me,  and  though  he  did  not  speak,  he  seemed  to  say,  "  You 


THE  GREATER  FRIENDSHIP  309 


see  how  the  flower  is  changing  from  one  beauty  to  another." 
He  was  right  :  I  saw  it  ;  and  as  the  years  went  by  I  saw  it 
gain  a  beauty  which  outstripped  all  dreams  of  beauty  which 
I  had  formed  of  it.  It  grew  to  be  a  comely  tree,  rich  with 
an  avalanche  of  flowers,  and  spreading  everywhere  a  gentle 
and  a  grateful  shade  ;  like  the  tree  of  the  gospel,  the  birds 
of  the  air  would  lodge  in  the  branches  of  it.  So  sweetness 
and  beauty  waited  on  love  and  patience. 

Then  came  one  of  the  most  piercing  and  revealing  expe- 
riences of  my  life.  A  trouble  fell  upon  me.  A  flower 
which  I  had  planted  in  my  garden,  and  which  I  had  watched 
with  care  for  many  days,  had  grown  into  unimagined 
beauty  :  I  call  it  a  flower,  but  indeed  it  had  become  a  tree 
laden  with  fair  and  fragrant  flowers.  Like  Jonah  under 
his  gourd,  I  rejoiced  in  the  beauty,  the  sweetness  and  the 
shelter  of  this  loved  and  cherished  growth.  Then  the 
trouble  came  :  some  strange  and  evil  thing  began  to  sap 
away  its  life  :  leafage  and  twig  and  stem  began  to  droop. 
I  hoped  that  coming  spring  and  summer  would  bring  new 
vigour  to  my  plant.  Still  with  me  was  my  grave  and  kindly 
friend,  and  when  my  heart  grew  anxious  about  my  loved 
tree,  I  spoke  to  him  ;  and  he  said,  "  I  can  save  it,  but  to  its 
own  loss."  They  were  mysterious  words,  but  they  were 
spoken  so  clearly  that  I  could  not  mistake  them,  I  must 
have  caught  his  thought,  without,  perhaps,  translating  it  into 
full  concrete  meaning.  He  seemed  to  mean  that  we  might 
pay  too  high  a  price  for  keeping  what  we  loved  ;  and  I 
answered,  as  one  whose  spirit  moves  in  harmony  with  the 
spirit  of  him  who  speaks,  and  moved  more  by  spiritual 


3IO        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 

harmony  than  by  mere  words,  I  cried,  "  Oh,  not  that  !  "  for 
1  could  not  wish  other  than  the  highest  good  to  what  I 
loved.  My  disappointment  or  my  loss  must  not  count  in 
such  a  case. 

And  so  the  full  trouble  fell.  The  fair,  flower-laden  tree 
withered  away.  No  more  were  its  beauties  there  to  delight 
my  eyes  :  no  more  its  shelter  for  me  to  rest  in  and  rejoice. 
And  then  came  a  strange  thing.  This  loss  became  a  revela- 
tion to  me.  Deprived  of  the  pleasant  shade  and  loveliness, 
as  I  sought  to  appease  my  sense  of  loss  I  discovered  that  I  had 
allowed  ill  weeds  to  grow  up  apace.  I  knew  my  negligence, 
and  never  had  I  felt  so  dismayed  and  despondent  as  I 
walked  about  and  measured  and  appraised  my  garden.  It 
was  as  though  a  heavenly  light  had  fallen,  and  had  disclosed 
the  ugly  growths  which  unaware  had  sprung  up. 

My  heart  was  broken  and  depressed,  and  a  conflict  with 
ill  weeds  fell  upon  me.  I  was  as  a  man  who  had  gone  on 
content  and  blind,  but  who  is  by  some  new  light  bidden  to 
see  and  thereupon  becomes  discontented.  I  often  looked 
at  my  grave  comrade-friend.  He  walked  with  me  still,  but 
as  one  who  did  not  see  what  I  saw,  or  who  would  not  let 
me  perceive  that  he  saw.  For  months,  I  think,  I  went 
almost  lonely,  for  though  he  was  always  near,  his  com- 
panionship seemed  withdrawn. 

Then  one  day  he  spoke,  and  all  was  changed.  He 
seemed  to  come  nearer  to  me,  and  I  said,  or  thought  I  said, 
"  I  have  learned  something.  Light  has  shone  straight  into 
my  heart,  and  I  have  seen  darkness  there — there,  where  I 
want  only  light  to  dwell ;  for  what  is  a  heart,  if  it  be  not 


THE  GREATER  FRIENDSHIP 


one  which  thrills  only  to  good,  instead  of  responding  to  ill  ?  " 
And  he  said,  "None  can  search  out  the  heart  but  God  only, 
and  for  this,  perhaps,  this  experience  has  been  yours."  So 
as  I  went  I  prayed,  "  Cleanse  the  thoughts  of  my  heart "  ; 
and  then  sweet  music  broke  upon  my  ears  :  a  choir  was 
singing,  as  if  it  would  give  expression  to  my  thoughts  ; 
and  the  words  they  sang  were  the  words  of  the  psalmist, 
"  Try  me,  O  God,  and  search  my  heart  :  try  me  and 
examine  my  thoughts.  Look  well  if  there  be  any  way 
of  wickedness  in  me,  and  lead  me  in  the  way  everlasting." 
Then  with  a  threefold  "  Amen  "  the  music  ceased,  and  my 
comrade-friend  was  at  my  side  ;  and  he  spoke  :  "  It  will  be 
well  with  you."  "  It  will  be  well  with  you  "  :  and  then,  as 
I  thought  what  this  might  mean,  he  said,  softly  yet  clearly, 
one  word — "  Victory." 

I  cannot  explain  all  that  he  meant,  for  this  is  a  record 
of  experience,  and  explanations  of  experience  must  wait 
often  for  fuller  light.  This,  however,  was  certain  :  I  felt 
that  my  grave  friend  had  drawn  much  nearer  to  me,  and  I 
thought  that  the  friendship  of  years  might  grow  into  one  of 
sweet  intimacy.  And  sometimes  it  has  :  then  I  have  known 
a  satisfaction  of  spirit  which  compensates  for  a  hundred 
disappointments  :  then  I  have  been  lifted  above  the  lower 
environment  which  seems  to  hamper  our  freedom.  The 
gladness  of  such  moments  has  been  exhilarating  and,  I  am 
tempted  to  say,  all-sufficing  ;  but  such  moments  are  rare  in 
all  friendships. 

Love  is  the  bond  of  friendship,  but  it  needs  not  to 
be  paraded  in  words,  and  seldom  indeed  did  we  speak  of 


312        FURTHER  PAGES  OF  MY  LIFE 

love  as  a  power  below  our  friendship.  Once,  I  think,  he 
asked,  *'  Do  you  love  me  ?  "  but  that  was  an  appeal  to  my 
courage.  For  the  rest,  I  have  known  many  sweet  and 
happy  friendships — some  very  sweet  for  the  short  time 
they  lasted,  but  very  dear  because  of  the  happy  fidelity 
which  these  constant  hearls  showed  me.  But  sweet  and 
happy  as  they  have  been,  this  one  friendship  of  which  I 
have  written  was  much  greater  than  all  ;  for  it  was  a  friend- 
ship which  unflinchingly  sought  my  welfare.  It  taught 
me  to  know  myself  ;  to  perceive  weaknesses  which  might 
have  been  concealed  from  me.  It  has  plunged  me  into- 
fear  as  it  showed  me  the  tenacity  with  which  evil  things 
clung  to  me,  or  the  irresolution  with  which  I  clung  to 
things  which  were  good.  It  depressed  mc  with  self-know- 
ledge. It  never  despaired  of  me,  though  I  might  well  have 
despaired  of  myself.  And  perhaps  above  all,  it  stood  beside 
me  in  sorrow,  in  joy,  in  depression  and  in  exaltation.  Its 
loyal  constancy  :  its  silent  lovingness  :  its  quiet  insistence 
that  I  should  still  go  on,  even  when  weary  :  its  wonderful 
aloofness,  and  its  more  wonderful  nearness  :  its  words  of 
counsel  :  its  whispered  encouragements  :  the  music  which 
it  caused  me  to  hear  :  the  visions  and  experiences  of  love 
which  it  brought  me  :  all  these  set  this  friendship  above 
all  others. 

I  know  that  whatever  may  happen  to  other  friendships, 
this  friendship  will  not  fail.  There  has  been  no  demon- 
strativeness  in  it,  though  it  has  brought  me  times  of 
superlative  gladness — a  gladness  calm,  peaceful  and  heart- 
sufficing.    Its  virtues  have  been  its  constancy,  its  tenderness 


THE  GREATER  FRIENDSHIP  313 

and  its  sanity.  Thus  it  has  had  a  character  of  its  own,  and 
it  fills  me  with  a  confidence  that  I  may  rely  upon  it  to  the 
last  ;  and  perhaps  when  that  wondrous  hour  comes  when 
the  road  leads  down  the  last  slope  which  all  must  follow, 
and  I  come  near  to  the  dark  waters  over  which  the  evening 
mists  lie  thick,  I  shall  find  that  true,  faithful  friend  will  be 
near  at  hand  to  give  me  a  last  word  of  cheer,  and  perhaps  a 
first  word  of  welcome  when  I  set  my  foot  upon  the  shore 
which  is  so  far  ofF  and  yet  so  near. 


INDEX 


Abbott,  Mr.,  66 
Ainger,  Canon,  208 
Albany,  Duke  of,  205 
Alexandra,  Queen,  240,  255-257 
Asquith,  Rt.  Hon.  H.  H.,  243 

Baden,  Grand  Duke  of,  271 
Balfour,  Rt.  Hon.  A.  J.,  233,  243 
Bickersteth,  Dr.,  157 
Bonar,  Horatius,  189 
Boulanger,  General,  268 
Boyd,  Dean,  180  et  seg. 

 ,  Miss,  182,  186 

 ,  William,  221 

Boyd  Carpenter,  Miss  Annie,  65 

 ,  Archibald,  67 

 ,  Henry,  67 

 ,  Miss  Jessie,  63 

 ,  Miss  Minnie,  63 

 ,  Mrs.,  35  et  seg.,  47  ei  seg.,  60 

ei  seq. 

 ,  Mrs.  Matilda,  76  et  seg.,  148, 

15s.  213 
Brodrick,  Canon,  155 
Bunsen,  Chevalier,  193 
Burgon,  Dean,  143 
Burke,  259 

Cambon,  M.  Jules,  292 
Carlisle,  Earl  of,  28 
Carpenter,  Archibald,  71 

 ,  Henry,  18     seg.,  25  ei  seg. 

 ,  Rev.  Henry,  i4eiseg. 

 ,  Mrs.  Hester,  14  et  seq.,  62,  64 

 ,  Robert,  i8 

 ,  Dr.  W.  B.,  238 

Chamberlain,    Houston,   272,  273, 
275 

 ,  Rt.  Hon.  Joseph,  216 

Churchill,  Lord,  269 
Clyde,  Lord,  223,  229,  230 
Connaught,  Prince  Arthur  of,  269 


Consort,  The  Prince,  192,  235-237 
248 

Cook,  James  Parsons,  1 2 
Crewe,  Lord,  242 

Crown  Prince  of  Germany,  290,  293 

Dalzell,  Miss,  195 
Dante,  36,  59 
Davey,  132  et  seq. 
Davidson,  Archbishop,  286 
Demolins,  M.,  258 
Dixon,  Mr.,  214 
Drury,  Bishop,  157 
Dryander,  Dr.,  271 
Durham,  Dean  of,  179 

Edward  VII,  King,  239  et  seq..,  280, 
281 

Farmer,  Henry,  128,  129 
Frederic,  Empress,  279 
Frederic  I,  271 
Frederic  William  II,  271 
Eraser,  Bishop,  122 

Gerando,  190 

Germany,  Empress  of,  274,  276 
Gladstone,  Rt.  Hon.  W.  E.,  229 
Goodwin,  Bishop  Harvey,  122,  124 
Gordon,  General,  227  et  seq. 
Goschen,  Lord,  237 
Graham,  Bishop  of  Chester,  38 

Hansard,  Rev.  Septimus,  238 
Hare,  Archdeacon,  191 
Harland  and  Wolff,  154 
Harrison,  Frederick,  179,  199 
Hartington,  Lord,  229 
Harvey,  Canon,  66 
Herder,  249 

Higginson,  Sir  George,  253 
Hill,  Bishop  Rowley,  122,  123 


31S 


INDEX 


Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell,  31 
Hook,  Dr.,  191 

Italy,  King  of,  268 

Jackson,  Charles,  183 
James,  Henry,  237 

Kaiser,  The  (see  William,  Emperor) 
Kant,  275 
KnoUys,  Lord,  268 
Kritzinger,  Dr.,  271 

Lansdowne,  Lord,  242,  247 
Lascelles,  Sir  Frank,  276 
Lawson,  Mrs.,  2 
Lightfoot,  Bishop,  122 
Lunn,  Messrs.,  151 
Luther,  Martin,  191 

MacLaren,  Ian  (Rev.  John  Watson), 

234.  235 
MacNeill,  Duncan,  223 

 ,  Sir  John,  224,  226 

Maitland,  Sir  Peregrine,  193 
Mary  Ann,  5,  7,  8,  9 
Maurice,  Colonel,  213 
Millwright,  Mr.,  137  ei  seg. 
Money,  Canon,  179,  180 
Mount-Temple,  Lord,  235 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  138 

Oxford,  Bishop  of,  196,  197 

Pagildeafilda,  1 5  ei  seg.,  22 
Palmer,  Dr.  William,  12 
Palmerston,  Lord,  235 
Peers,  Rev.  William  H.,  45,  49,  76 

 ,  Mrs.,  76 

Pichon,  M.  Stephen,  291 
Pope  Leo  IX.,  268 
Portugal,  King  of,  236 
Prothero,  Canon,  266 

Ratcliff,  Colonel,  204,  205 
Reed,  Mr.,  146 


Rhodes,  Rt.  Hon.  Cecil,  253,  254 
Riddell,  Lady  Frances,  49 
Roberts,  Lord,  233,  234 
Robertson,  F.  W.,  179  ei  seq. 
Roche,  James  Jeffrey,  32 
Rosebery,  Lord,  229,  243 
Ryland,  John,  214 
Ryle,  Bishop,  122 

Saxe,  Marshal,  83 
Schleiermacher,  190 
Serret,  Lieut. -Colonel,  291 
Shorthouse,  J.  H.,  204  et  seq. 

 ,  Mrs.,  204 

Sims,  G.  R.,  57 

Singleton,  Mrs.,  47 

Smith,  Father,  95 

Stanley,  Dean,  206 

Stewart,  Rev.  David  Dale,  49,  66 

Strafford,  Lord,  221 

Taine,  249 

Tauler,  John,  83 

Temple,  Archbishop,  127  et  seq. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  Lord,  188,  189 

Thomson,  Archbishop,  122,  124 

Tucker,  Mr.,  190 

TuUoch,  Colonel,  224 

Verdi,  254 

Victoria,  Queen,  205,  229,  236,  240, 
242,  248,  266,  289 

Waldstein,  Professor  Sir  Charles, 
257 

Ward,  William,  191 
Welland,  Shepherd,  49 

 ,  Bishop,  49,  152,  153 

Whitehead,  Taylor,  46 
Wilberforce,  Bishop  Ernest,  122 
William,  Emperor  of  Germany,  263 

et  seq. 
Windthorst,  26S 
Wolseley,  Lord,  229-231 
Wyndham,  Captain,  269 

Zecharias,  Admiral,  271 


DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 

